Follow You Through Time - Part 1
by Danny441004
Summary: America and England have endless petty squabbles, no surprise really. Father and daughter are very much alike, despite the estrangement causing both such pain. But after an accident, America is transported back to a time before she knew her father; a time he never spoke of. Terrified and curious, she learns many new things, while the present-day Arthur scrambles to bring her home.
1. Chapter 1

Hello Ya'll! Got inspired for another story! I'm not 100% sure where I am going with this, but I thought of a two part universe for it involving my two favorite versions of England; the pirate and 'King Arthur'.

This is not a slash fic for UKUS, despite me using a fem!America OC, Anne, again. This is actually a father/daughter fic. Just another perspective for me to try. Reviews and constructive criticism is welcome as always. Again, not specific direction for this story, other than the basic bones, but I figured I should write while the inspiration is flowing.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters, I do not own Disney or Jack Sparrow.

Historical Notes: I don't know 17th century pirate speak, nor do I have the patience to write it. 17th century piracy was building to its height, I think, in the late 1650s to the 1700s-ish. And while the Americas had been found earlier than that, I took some liberties in that Arthur, despite knowing of the New World, did not actually find baby Anne until perhaps the late 1600s to early 1700s, when the colonies were finally building up larger than simple forts. So when Anne appears here, it is just before Arthur retires from piracy to become more gentlemanly and finds a toddler Anne roaming the American wilderness. Having said that, there will be some historical inaccuracies...probably.

Ch. 1:

The sky was overcast and the air comfortable with a promise of approaching rain; perfect for afternoon tea in a garden to relax. But Anne couldn't relax; not now. Though if she were honest, it was always hard to relax around her father, Arthur. Had been that way for centuries. Anne can't even remember what it was they were arguing over, only that it was something trivial, and then they'd devolved into hurling insults of times long since passed. Now, Anne was fuming in the small garden conservatory, wanting to leave, but she can't because of nation business where Arthur had invited her over to discuss during tea. Really, she should've expected this by now. Why did she bother to still try? It was the same exhausting battle of them shouting back and forth until one finally storms off to fume. Or cry.

It wasn't as if she wanted to keep fighting him, she thought, dabbing the corners of her eyes to keep from allowing the tears to fall. To let them go would mean falling apart at his garden table and that would just be embarrassing. And it would ruin her makeup. Anne sighed in her spot contemplating simply leaving. Her boss would be disappointed with her, but it wouldn't stop business from happening. Both she and Arthur were nothing if not efficient. Father and daughter were more alike than either cared to admit; stubborn and willful. They were good and bad traits really, she knew. They could help a person win a war or they could keep a war never-ending. The thought was very tiring and only made her feel worse. She sagged a little in her chair, picking threads in her jeans, blinking hard at the pain in her chest, and eyeballing the strange bubbling potions perched hazard on a rickety table, and markings Arthur carved into the side of the room for his magic practice. Just another thing she could never understand about him. Just another thing they couldn't see eye-to-eye on. It was so stupid, she thought. They bring out the worst in each other, and it really wasn't fair. Because despite their history, there was no lost love on her part.

He was her father, he always would be. He would always be her beacon of comfort, of wisdom, and of joy. That was a father's power. But since the revolution she wasn't welcome anymore, and it hurt so much. She understood why, of course. She chose her independence over him and he would never truly forgive her for it. This decayed and frayed stasis of their relationship was her fault. She didn't know what to do to fix it. Anne sniffed in her place, mentally berating herself. _'_ _Get it together, hero! Before you fall apart!'_ She heard the clinking of a tea set, signaling Arthur's approach, and hurried to compose herself.

Arthur placed the tray down rather roughly and sat heavily in his seat. So he was still angry, she thought tiredly. Neither uttered a word as the Englishman robotically maneuvered through the afternoon tea ritual and pouring for guests. He stiffly passed her the delicate teacup and she stiffly accepted. It was like waiting for a bomb to explode and she knew she should've just left because he clearly hadn't enough time to cool off; he wanted to say more and he would the moment the time for speaking overpowered the rudeness of silence. She sipped her tea, noting he still remembered how she took hers, and didn't dare touch the biscuits. She barely moved an inch and simply waited for the battle to continue and prayed that it wouldn't. She'd have been happy to be silent the rest of the day.

Arthur kept his eyes stern as he glared about the space. He was still angry, despite the breathing exercises Wales insisted he try to employ. It didn't work, he thought cursing his elder brother. Who knew what they were fighting over anymore? In fact, he felt that sometimes they fought simply for the sake of fighting. He glanced down at his teacup; he'd forgotten to add the sugar in his distraction. Blast it all. He glanced at his daughter who kept her eyes down and carefully placed the teacup on the table, sighing. Arthur felt his anger spike again, thinking about the insults she'd tossed today. Such impudence!

"Look," she began quietly, "The interest rates are the lowest we've ever offered any other nation. Their height is calculated with the rising costs of fossil fuels—"

"Suppose it would be prudent to look into other fuel options to lower costs then." He interrupted.

"Which we have. But until then, the rates are mostly set the same for everyone. You getting a lower rate because you didn't want to accept the initial offer and—"

"And what, I should be grateful?" he was baiting her, he knew it. He did, but often times his temper flared and rationality left too. He wouldn't notice such things until he calmed and had time to finally regret his actions.

"That's not what I am saying." She sighed thinking that it certainly wouldn't hurt either. "I am simply just—"

"What are you saying? Hmm?"

"If you would allow me to finish." Her voice raised only slightly.

And from there the battle ensued. More insults were thrown; of her calling him on his temper and he her maturity. Both would usually say something they regretted every time. But Anne was tired; her people were arguing, the capital was arguing, and now she was arguing. It was exhausting constantly having to fight everyone.

But she was stopped short this time. His finishing words, already jumbled and scorched in her memory, had torn through her heart as a bullet from a rifle. She stood wide-eyed and the air left her lungs in a painful huff and her eyes blurred her vision of her father's equally shocked expression. What was there to say to such a thing? What comeback would be appropriate? She had been right all along; he hadn't forgiven her anything. She tried to inhale but it was as if trying to take in water.

Arthur's mouth hung open and he clenched the table cloth in a death grip. Why, he thought. Why had he said that? He certainly didn't feel that way. Of course he didn't. Damnation! He let his mouth run and now he'd said something truly hurtful. He could see it in her stance, in the way her eyes watered, and her hands trembled. His heart clenched in regret and sadness. Damn it! He'd hurt her feelings.

"Anne," he hesitated, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that." Anne gasped, finally able to breathe again, and tried to stifle a sob.

"Yes, you did. That's how you've always felt, isn't it?" Anne moved fast to step away. She needed to get out. She needed to run. She just couldn't be here anymore.

"No, poppet! Listen!"

"Excuse me," her voice wavered, "I need to leave." Quickly turning to quite literally run, but Arthur moved fast to grasp her arm. She tried to evade but the room was small, leaving no space to side step and Arthur was quick. When she moved, her hip bumped the rickety antiquated table, knocking several concoctions over, eliciting a squeak from her and sent them smashing to the floor. They popped and fizzled over the intricate carvings on the floor.

"Are you alright, dear? Here, carefully step away." Arthur tried to reach for her, but she kept evading his hold, "Anne, look at me! I need you to step away, those are quite dangerous and they're mixing!" Arthur moved to pull her away from his potions table, there was no telling the reactions this accident could cause; it was dangerous and they both needed to leave before something exploded, but she was already bending forward, apologizing, and attempting to start cleaning. His casting circle on the floor flashed brightly and Arthur cursed, but in those few seconds, the flash dissipated and with a small cry that Arthur was certain sounded like 'Dad!', so had Anne.

Arthur let out a long string of curses and a small sob. She was gone! His magic had displaced her…or disintegrated her. His daughter. His baby girl.

She was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or its characters, or Disney, or Jack Sparrow, etc.

**Updated to correct grammatical errors...that I've found...**

Ch. 2:

It was felt like she was burning, but without the intensity of pain. Was she in shock? Was she dead? Would death be this loud and disorienting? She was surrounded by a hot, searing kind of sensation, as if every cell of her skin was over-sensitive to the slightest disturbance with a head rush intensity that came with being in a tornado. It was difficult to breathe, to think, until she finally impacted water. Coming to her senses, she clawed her way to the surface, her lungs already near-emptied and her muscles protesting. Breaching the surface, Anne gasped and choked on the grit, tangy flavor that scratched unforgiving within her throat. Salt water, she identified, panting and glancing around her.

 _'I'm in the middle of the ocean?'_

Confused at the endless stretch of ocean no matter where she turned, Anne paddled in place to try and calm her nerves. This was bad, she knew. She would eventually tire and drown if no one found her. It didn't matter that she was a personification. True, their kind were more or less immortal, but she would meet several deaths before finally resurrecting close to her lands. It would be a long, drawn out process of terrible pain and despair of dying over and over again. She knew; she'd experienced it early on when the English colonies failed over and over before Jamestown finally took to the soil and her existence was more permanent. Unlike some, she was well acquainted with death.

Even so, she wondered how she ended up here. One minute fighting her father in the sunroom and now…Anne gasped and scrambled for some driftwood that floated near her. Clinging she relaxed, if only to rest her aching. What was there to do but wait? Maybe a boat would pass; maybe the current would pull her towards land? There was nothing to do but wait.

And wait she did. Three days. Three agonizing days of aimless floating, an unforgiving sky, and kicking away predators. She was starving, exhausted, couldn't even lift her head to gaze the scenery, and ready to let go of the driftwood and sink. What was the point of hanging on, she wondered, why prolong the pain? She would die several times and eventually make it back. Anne tiredly closed her eyes and whimpered; she was just so _tired_.

"Man Overboard!" a shout startled her and she tried to glance up, but the sun was too bright for already tired eyes. All she heard was breaking waves and more shouts; all she saw was a dark blurb floating nearby over the endless shining indigo she'd become so familiar with. She vaguely heard a deep splash, as if something heavy had been dropped into the water, more shouts, as a slapping repetition drew nearer. She was roughly pulled from the water and dragged onto a blessed dry boat, she realized with slight relief. Thank heaven for the Coast Guard, of any country. There was talking around her before the slapping sound resumed and she allowed the exhaustion to take her.

She was violently brought back to reality when she was unceremoniously dropped onto the stale wooden deck on a ship. A pungent stench of unwashed, slightly burnt human flesh floated around causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust. It was certainly a scent she never thought she'd have to endure again. Not since the early days of her Navy, or you know, the implementation of mandatory hygiene at sea. Blinking hard, Anne glanced up from her spot on the deck, or trying to at least. At some point she'd been bound by painfully scratchy rope.

It was like a scene from one of her movies; like Disney's pirate films. Scraggly, gruff, and dirty men are what surrounded her. Some with boots, some barefoot, and no uniform to speak of. And they were filthy, which would explain the stench. Gross. But all the same, intriguing. She'd been rescued by looks to be a 17th century ship; canvas sails, iron cannons, and all.

' _This can't be…'_ Anne glanced about curiously. One of the men pulled her shoulder smartly to sit her up and shouted for someone to fetch the captain. They were certainly English, she could tell from the accents, but their words were…well, it was…17th century sailor speak. Her brows furrowed in confusion. Last she checked her calendar it was 2017 and the naval ships were steel with much bigger guns. And better dressed sailors. Cleaner ones too, who spoke proper English. Anne turned to the man holding her in place to start asking questions, but just as she got a word out she was struck, hard, across the face.

"Yeh hold yer tongue, wench, 'til the cap'n gets here." Anne grit her teeth at the man, ready to snarl back, when the crew parted and boots clanked smartly closer to the pair.

"Hold, Sams. What have we here?" came a new voice. It sounded familiar, but not quite like the one she was imagining. She wanted to look, but after being hit, the man, Sams, had shoved her head down.

"The 'overboard', sir. Tis a woman. Or siren. Best we toss her back over 'fore bad luck take hold o' the ship." The man, the captain, chuckled darkly at Sams' description, and stepped closer.

"You've seen sirens before, Sams. Does she look like one to you? Probably just a castaway thief; or accused witch." This seemed to amuse the man further and he angled the toe of his boot under her chin to lift her face, but Anne angrily jerked away. The captain 'tsk'-ed and drew his sword placing it instead below her chin, digging the sharp point into her neck. "Behave, woman." He commanded.

"Cap'n, if she be a witch—"

"Then who better a spell caster than me self would sense it? Leave the magic to your captain; who commands both the ancient rites and the seas." There was a definitive warning in his tone as he forced Anne to look up. With the sun baring down it was difficult to see, but even as her eyes adjusted she could stop the shock that that ballooned within her chest.

It was England; Arthur; her father.

Dressed as a 17th century pirate. Long red justaucorps coat over breeches, waistcoat with a large sash under thick, leather belts that held his scabbard and pistols. The only thing missing was a cravat. Even so, despite the worn look of the coat, with its gold trim and a feathered tricorne hat he was the fanciest thing on deck. Like a fancy Jack Sparrow. Ugh, she watches way too much television.

"Hmph, not a woman; just a girl. Are you a witch, girl?" he sneered. All the talk of witches seemed to agitate the men, weapons were drawn and they flitted about the deck like provoked tigers, growling in warning before they decided to attack. The captain seemed to notice as well, but it only served to increase his amusement. The sword flicked under her chin, "What is your name?"

"What? You don't recognize—"

"You answer the captain!" The other man, Sams, gripped her hair, jerking her back hard enough to garner a gasp. Arthur made no move to stop him.

"My name is Anne!" she gritted in pain, "And I am no witch!" Anne had no idea what was going on. How was she suddenly at sea with a pirate version of her father that didn't seem to recognize her? But she was tired, a little scared, and starving. And really, how dare they call her a witch; she didn't dabble in the things that her father and his brothers did. She was a woman of science! Wait, magic; is that how this happened? When she knocked over those weird bottles on that old table? Was she sent back in time? She quickly glanced to her father. Or perhaps an alternate universe? She never remembered her father like this, and he certainly never spoke of it. No, he was always adamant that he was a privateer for his monarchy. Legal trade and exploration. It was how he found her after she'd been born. And he was no pirate, no, he was a gentleman. Softer than the image she sees here.

"Not a witch, eh? How curious." Arthur reached forward to clutch her chin. "Tis a lie, girl. You are surrounded by magic. So how are you not a witch, mm?"

"I'm not a witch." She replied tiredly. So it was a spell that brought her here. Great, she thought. I don't do magic, so how do I get home? I'm stuck in some different world.

"Little lying cretin you be." He smirked, "Fine. I'm sure the men will have some fill of you before you are returned to your fate then."

"What?" her heart froze. "You—you can't! I haven't done anything wrong! Please, don't you know me? England!" Arthur stopped and stared a moment before looking livid and clutching her chin again.

"You. How do you know to address me as such? Eh? Speak!" he snapped.

"I'm like you. I'm a nation, I'm the nation called America, but I've been accidently set through time—"

"Do you believe me a fool, girl? There is no such nation. Time magic takes great power to cast! Nigh impossible it is!" Several of the men began to shout for her head, calling her evil and a devil, inching closer with their swords ready to cut her down.

"It's true. Or at least I think it is."

"Silence!" Arthur's blade ran across the side of her throat leaving a thin cut that began to bleed down her neck. "No spell caster would simply cast time magic."

While death isn't necessarily a terrible, permanent thing to a personification. Anne wasn't sure if, in this time or universe, she wouldn't be killed. And the thought scared her more than she cared to admit. Letting out a whimper as tears prickled her already tired eyes, she softly pleaded with the stranger with her father's face before her.

"Please. Please don't kill me, father."

The blade was gone from her neck as Arthur pulled away in shock. "Cap'n?" Sams, still holding her hair, glanced at his leader in question. And Arthur held up a hand to silence everyone; expression set grim.

"Put her in the brig. I must confer with my magic."

"But Cap'n—"

"Now! And the rest of you rats, back to your stations!" Arthur stalked away while Anne was dragged below deck, quiet hiccupping sobs escaping her throat, before she was harshly thrown into an iron cage in the dark bowels of the ship. The gate closed with a loud, grating shriek and she was left alone with only a moldy pile of hay and an empty wooden bucket.


	3. Chapter 3

Hey Everyone, just thought I'd post this before my flight back to California and I start on my Midterms! Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Notes: Historical Inaccuracies, can't write 17th century speak...or accents. And yea, Arthur is acting funny, but only because he wants the best outcome and magic effects are tricky and all that. I don't know anything about magic, so the casting and all that is...yea...

Ch. 3

It was ludicrous, Arthur thought, pacing his quarters and gathering his tonics and baubles. _How could she be—No, it wasn't possible._ He scattered his collection onto his table before pulling a small cauldron from behind him out of its compartment buried under a storage hatch in the bench. Placing everything he collected in it, he intended to only use them if the runes and cards read the truth…and maybe the crystals to check thrice. If they all rang true…he would need a fresh sample from her. The pirate huffed and wretched the desk drawer open to dig out his small leather pouch of runes and his tarot cards from their black, silk wrap.

A few brave fairies that dared inhabit the dark recesses of his ship to brave the distance from their homeland, flittered about him as he gathered his magic. Fae couldn't stray too far from their source of magic, which was typically the lands they were bound to, but with a solid and steady, magically inclined host they could go a great distance to accompany or settle in new territories. And Arthur ever minded playing host to the little leeches; he rather enjoyed their company and they seemed to enjoy his. They bobbed curiously around his desk, poking around the cauldron to categorize the contents no doubt, and prodding his leather rune pouch all the while chattering at him in their ancient language. They were certainly excited; their energies sparking to and fro as they all tried to speak at once.

Arthur gave them a small smile and shushed them as he concentrated his question towards the runes, whispering the query, before tossing them onto the small open space. They landed with sharp cracks against the wood and settled. Arthur clicked his tongue in annoyance, gathered them and put them away. Reaching for his cards, he carefully placed them in their designed order, focusing his thoughts on the same question. Flipping them, his brows furrowed as the answers were the same and answered even more. _Traveler. A journey. Accident. Magical influence._ The fairies hummed excitedly. Arthur flipped the cards to read the girl below deck. _Strength. War. Alchemy? Lost. Air. Child._ Arthur cursed aloud. She was telling the truth? But who could be powerful enough, nay, _skilled_ enough to cast time magic? He has certainly never attempted. It was too dangerous; unpredictable. Did she have a run-in with a magical creature? Ah, but, if she'd angered a fae, wouldn't it have been easier for them to simply destroy her rather than waste magic on a time spell? And there were so very few creatures who could cast such magic. And why send her through time at all? If she was a nation it would certainly weaken her…if her country didn't exist yet. _America_ , she said. The only new lands were in the new world, but no country existed; only Native tribes that governed themselves separately. And according to that Spanish idiot, only southern reaches of the new world had empires; savage ones that already had personifications. And this girl was no savage.

The old nation sighed and reached for the crystals in another drawer. Placing them on the desk, he conducted the same questions with the same results. He'd also asked about their connection to each other…and the crystal grew bright. Arthur felt the air leave his lungs; they had a strong connection. Was that part true as well?

She'd called him _father_.

Arthur's heart clenched painfully. It was a shock, but…well, it had been no secret amongst his closest and most trusted that he'd always wanted children. Wanted to sire a nation as his mother, the Great Britannia, had with her sons. But such a feat was rare, really. There hadn't been any new nations in a long time, which was why so many had been scrambling for the New World. To sire a nation and thus extend their own influences. But, for Arthur it was more personal. He'd never admit it out loud, but he wanted a child because he wanted to be a father. Wanted that connection to another that was loving, instead of the dysfunctional spite that seemed to riddle his relationships with his brothers. Sure, they loved each other deep down, but they were enemies in a way too; each with their own kingdom, unwilling to destroy one another, but also unwilling to bend to each other. Arthur worried that eventually something or someone would be forced to give, and that one of them would be lost for it.

His brothers knew of his want for children; of a proper family. Scotland teased him endlessly for it; that somehow he'd manage to fail at it. " _Poor bairn would end up all twisted; wha' wit yer influence. Best keep th' bad traits stuck only wit yoo'."_ Alistair's words rattled in the back of his mind. His elder brother was such a bastard sometimes. The lot of them talked with bite, but Arthur believed they'd be pleased for a new member to their family no matter who sired them. Some new blood to connect them again; to teach; to dote upon. His eldest brother, Wales, would certainly indulge the child with stories and probably designate himself their personal tutor. Though Arthur idly wondered how that would pan out; Rhys was such a stoic at times; probably frighten the child. And Alistair most certainly would with his brutish ways and unforgiving manner. It'd be nothing was war training with him. And don't get him started on Reilly; it'd be nothing but mischief and sweets!

He sighed and sat heavily in his chair, eyeballing the cauldron. It would confirm his paternity that much was certain. It would confirm anyone's paternity to her really. She could the frog's child and the spell would reveal it. But did he want to know? Should he know? She was here by time magic; and knowledge of time outside one's own could be dangerous. It made things unstable.

Dammit, he needed a drink!

Anne been down there for hours already, and already she could feel her stomach rolling from the conditions she was forced to lie in. They hadn't untied her. And she was too weakened to break them, especially with the overtight binding they'd given her. Her wrists were definitely going to be bloodied and bruised. The floors were nasty, covered in all manner of mess that she didn't want to think about. And it was a mess that had to have been there since the ship first sailed. And here she was, laying in it. She wanted water. And food. Even her father's burnt scones sounded mouthwatering right now.

She gave a small sob thinking about her father again; both the one she'd just lost and this new terrifying stranger. What was she going to do? Try as she might, she had nothing, and it frustrated her to no end. She'd always known how to get out of any situation, but then she'd always had her overwhelming strength behind her. She could only feel a small fraction of that power now. It was terrible, but she realized that she'd grown to rely on that strength to always be there. Why learn how to bend the ropes to escape when one could just break them? She was the god-dammed United States! She cried internally. There had to be way to do this!

Meanwhile…In the present

Rhys surveyed he mess in the garden room from a distance while Alistair and Arthur tried to identify all the ingredients that had mixed. Reilly stood off to the side worrying the small newsboy cap Anne had worn on her trip there in his hands and chewing his lip.

"You didn't think to inventory your stock?" Rhys asked, arms crossed.

"I'd been meaning to." Arthur replied weakly.

"More importantly, you didn'a pull her away." His Scottish Brother grumbled.

"For the hundredth time, I tried to!"

"Aye! And now look wha' happened! She's gone!" Both Arthur and Reilly gave a small, quiet cry in response.

"Alba, enough. This isn't helping." Rhys cut in with a disapproving glare, "She may yet be found. We just need to know where she has been cast to. She could just be a few miles away, flung from an open portal for all we know. She could waltz back in, wondering what happened and everything would be fine."

"Yeh really think she'd come back after tha'? After what this arse said ta' her?" Arthur flinched in the background.

"He didn't mean it. And you underestimate her forgiveness." Wales concluded before adding quietly, "And her love."

"Aye. She hasn't left us yet." Reilly piped in, trying to smile. Alistair sighed, pointedly looking away from everyone. Heartfelt things just weren't his element.

"Indeed.' Rhys patted Eire's shoulder, "So let us focus, yes?"

And on the pirate ship…

Arthur had been diligently mixing the concoction within the cauldron on his desk, occasionally thumbing over a page in his spell book for reference, and his fairies nimbled about passing him small pinches of this or that to add. A sharp rap stopped the procession short, however, and one of his men opened the door and leaned his head in.

"Pardon, sir. Helm say winds 'ave changed. He want yer permission to alter course."

"Fine, fine." Arthur waved distracted and the man moved to leave, no one disturbed the Captain and his magic of course, "Wait."

"Cap'n?"

"Bring me some hair from our guest in the brig."

"Hair, sir?"

"Yes, hair. A few strands. Now!"

"Aye, sir!" And the man fled the scene.

Anne had been wiggling in her place in attempt to try and loosen the ropes binding her, but all she succeeded in doing was tear into her skin and agitate the already tender bruises. Sighing, she then attempted to maneuver herself into a sitting position, but it proved just as uncomfortable as laying upon the ground. She startled when the hatch leading to the deck opened and heavy footfalls resounded harshly against the wood. Another crewmate stumbled in and opened her jail door with a sharp crack of the key and the same shriek. He eyed her warily and pulled a small knife from his frayed belt.

"No strange casting, _witch_ , or I'll gut ya." He emphasized the threat by jerking the knife before him as if to drive the point home. Anne nodded carefully but tensed as he drew closer.

"What are you going to do?"

"Cap'n be wantin' yer hair."

"My—what?"

"Shut it!" And with that he snatched a handful of her hair to jerk her forward, causing Anne to let out a hiss. Her scalp was still sore from its previous abuse.

"Do _not_ cut off all my hair!" She growled low. The man scoffed, but only cut a small pinch of her strands and stood to leave her again. "Can't you at least cut my binds?"

"I said shut it, wench!" He shouted, but seemed to want to escape the cell as badly as she did, but she imagined it was because he feared her apparent witchery. Curling her hair around his fingers, he sheathed the knife and left her to the darkness once again.

By the time the crewman had returned with Anne's hair, Arthur's concoction was heartily boiling on its perch while the pirate himself was stirring and occasionally adding a few more ingredients here and there.

"Bout time, man." He grumbled, "What kept you—oh, it doesn't matter. Give it here!" Arthur had cut off the man before he could explain that he really didn't want to be down in the bowels with a witch; that he'd fretted by the hatch for a while before braving the descent. But even she wasn't as scary as the Captain. Once he'd handed the man the hair he turned tail to return to his duties. Arthur paid him no mind as he tossed the gold strands into the cauldron and gave the incantation. The mixture hissed and fizzed, sending sparks that the little fae gave tinkling cheers to a spell well cast; Arthur had the sneaking suspicion that they already knew the answers he wanted. Not that they would simply tell him if he asked; the little buggers. No matter, now it was to let the potion simmer and settle and he'd have his answers by morning.

He'd fallen asleep in his chair, curled in on himself as he waited. Grimacing, he stretched his stiff neck to and fro then yawned loudly as he ran his hands over his eyes and brows. And as he peered into the potions' contents, as clear as his crystals in sunlight, Arthur regretted not having that drink he wanted. He fell heavily onto his chair, feeling dizzy with…with…he didn't know what this was; anxiousness, elation, fear, joy?

His daughter. His child.

The babe he'd always secretly wanted, was here. Or rather, would eventually be there. This version had travelled through time. Someone had cursed her, flinging her backwards. But what luck she has! To find _him_ ; out here, where she'd be rescued. And she was a beautiful creature; a bonny face with bonny eyes. She must have a bonny smile too! She couldn't have been very old either, but he could sense that she was strong; was used to strength anyway. Arthur ran a hand over his face and gave a slightly harried laugh. His brothers owed him a drink in celebration. He had done it! He sired a nation! And she was right there! Right below deck in the brig—

"Blast!" Arthur jolted upward and cursed in every language he knew. His daughter was locked below deck in that horrid and dreadful place and had been there all night! Well, that certainly won't do. Practically tripping over himself, he pulled on his overcoat, not really bothering with any trinkets and immediately made his way to the hatch that would take him to the brig. The men scrambled out of his way, unsure why exactly their captain was making a beeline for their prisoner, though some had made bets he was off to finally kill her. A witch on board was bad luck; with the exception o' their cap'n o'course.

Arthur reached the bottom and was at the brig in only a few steps to find Anne curled in the far corner. Bloody hell! He shouted for the key loud enough that Anne twitched in place, but she was too tired to care. And too pained to move. She was wasn't going to last much longer before her body simply gave out. The iron gate was sharply pulled open again and Arthur stepped in to kneel next to her.

Did no one think to feed her? Arthur felt regret twist in his gut. Damn it all. No, no, no, no! He was a bloody pirate; no time to be soft. And it didn't matter how curious he was about her and their future together, he needed to find a way to send her back. He couldn't get too close, no matter how much he wanted to. But…well, he couldn't leave her like this; she was a Kirkland, after all.

He pulled off his coat to wrap her in it and tug her into his arms to lift her. Maneuvering her through the door and up onto the deck would be hard, but he'd manage. One of his men was behind him anyway, placing a steadying hand on his back as the climbed the narrow and steep ladder well. The crew murmured from their stations as they watched him carry her to his quarters. Arthur did acknowledge them, only turned to the crew member who had followed him and demanded a long list of items from their stores.

Anne felt herself being placed on a much softer, but kind of scratchy surface, and could hear voices giving a warbled sound in her ears. Everything just hurt though. She felt wet and dry at the same time, a cold sweat had descended at some point in the night, and her stomach no longer rumbled; just clenched painfully as her body tried to compensate for the lack of sustenance and fluids to keep her going. It was dry in this space however, and she felt a hand nestle upon her head. Another voice, thick and gravelly, before a wet cloth replaced the hand; cool enough to startle her into focus.

"Easy, mistress. Lie still." The heavier voice pulled her focus. It belonged to an older man with a scraggly beard and yellowing teeth. One eye was definitely blind, and his state of dress was worn and patch covered, but unlike the other men on deck, he wore a simple wool vest with a small pin; she couldn't recognize the symbol. He replaced the wet cloth on her head before stepping away to speak to Arthur; something about regaining strength and rest before he left the room.

Arthur had entered her line of sight then, practically thrumming with energy, and his crossed his arms and look down at her.

"It seems you were telling the truth. Welcome to the family." He smirked. "Or rather, welcome to the empire." This was best, he thought. He would see her soon enough, in her proper time, and at the proper time. They were sailing to his beloved lands anyway. He and his brothers, _her uncles_ he thought happily, could find a way to set her back on the right path. For now, he was master of the tides; lord of the seas. A most feared pirate and that was that.

Anne pressed herself further into the bed at the look that crossed her father's (though is he really her father here?) face and shuddered. She recognized the look. It was his expression of triumph; one he usually wore when he was about to give France or Spain a good thrashing; like when he'd won the battles during her revolution and sent her and Francis's soldiers running. Empire, indeed. This was his look of conquer. And it was directed at her.

She gulped before the sickness finally forced her to pass out and all was darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm so sorry this took so long! I just got stuck as to how to proceed! Thank you for your patience and reviews!

Disclaimers: I don't own anything of Hetalia.

Note: Historical inaccuracies for the sake of plot. I don't know accents well enough to type them accurately, nor do I know pirate-speak. Arthur is used to authority and commanding; used to people respecting his word. Anne is used to arguing or simply doing her own thing. You wont see it here quite yet, but it will be a big issue between the two. The lesson I wanted them to learn was compromise and communication in this story, so hopefully I can convey that well enough as the chapters progress. But now hat Anne is doing better, their natural personality types are going to come to the forefront as Arthur expects her to do as she is told and Anne gets bored on a ship. I don't know if anyone here as ever sailed on a ship (that isn't a cruise liner), but entertainment back then was pretty limited. Even in the Navy, being out to sea, sometimes when you're out there a while, (with no internet, you read all the books, and watched all the movies in your and your friends collection, and you can only work out for so long; work gets repetitive) believe me it can get really frustrating fast. You don't care where you port, you just want to be off the ship! Anyways, without further ado...!

Ch. 4:

Present Time:

Arthur scoured his spell books, weathered and riddled with his notes, and cursed as a page gave him a small papercut. Once he and his brothers accounted for the ingredients, no one had an answer for a possible spell. They'd retreated to their libraries in search of answers. _Bollocks!_ He sighed unhappily, pressing his handkerchief to the small cut. He'd been neglecting his magic indeed if he had no lead for the spell. What he'd been working before Anne toppled everything was a simple tonic for replenishing; to restore some of his magic since he'd casted not too long ago with his Magic Trio Club. But there were many other ingredients on the table as well; some he hadn't touched in ages. He could no longer remember what they were off the top of his head.

But one thing they were sure of, well _Rhys assured_ them, was that the spell didn't kill her. She was alive…somewhere. It was relieving news, Arthur thought, as they now scrambled to figure out where she'd been sent to. It couldn't happen soon enough as well, for her government had already contacted him wondering why she had not returned to the embassy or checked in. He knew he could only hold them off for so long.

Alistair still treated him as if he had killed her, while the other two just looked exasperated or disappointed in him. And really, he was disappointed in himself as well. He didn't mean what he had said; of course he didn't mean it. She would always be his daughter and he would always love her, no matter what transpired between them. His temper, however, was legendary. Just ask that stupid, bloody frog. Or that idiot Spaniard. And he often spoke in anger without thinking to shield his words. It was worse when he drank.

He would have a lengthy apology when he got her back. And hope that she forgave him. There was certainly never a more true time, anyhow, to finally clear the air between them. It was long overdue, in fact. But he needed her to understand that her revolution and his bitterness over it is done; should be done. He would work on bettering himself and letting it go. He thought he had, honestly, but…well, old scars, he supposed. He is not as emotionally strong as he wished, even spent centuries upon centuries trying to be and failing.

His phone rang with a simple, chipper tune that signified that it was Eire calling. Perhaps he'd found something? Reaching for it, he'd barely gave greeting before he felt as if his head was going to explode. He gave a loud gasp and dropped his phone, vaguely hearing Reilly call out to him, but all he could do was shut his eyes and try to breathe. But once is eyes closed his mind had been assaulted with flashes, no _images_ , and garbled sensations that reached every other sense. He could smell the sea; feel the wind; and though he was indoors, he skin felt warmed by sunlight. And a laugh; a familiar cheerful sound that had been a part of his life for centuries. It was _her_ laugh.

But the accompanying scene, of ocean spray and creaking hulls, didn't fit.

In her early years they'd never sailed together, no, she was too young and the seas could be dangerous. He'd often scolded her even for running about the docks in her younger years; she could've fallen in! The first time they'd sailed…what was it…late 19th century? Yes…she'd been excited by the new steamships, but sailing, despite her impressive Navy, had never been her forte. It had always been his while the skies were her domain. And yet, the image of her, as he knew her now, wandering the deck of his favorite ship, it felt almost like—

"Oi! Albion! Are you there?!" Reilly's shouting startled him and he lethargically fumbled for his phone.

"Yes, I—yes. I'm still here."

"The hell happened?"

"I'm not exactly sure. I just—I had a sudden migraine and…"

"And?"

"And I saw her…as if remembering her from centuries before. On my ship, you know my favorite, back when I was a—before we settled in the New World."

"Er, this isn't the time for memory lane, yeh know. I know ya feel guilty an' all, but…or maybe stress? Mixin' up memories now. Should lay down or something." _Mixing up her memory? No it couldn't…the image was too vivid, and he wasn't dreaming…his head hurt as if recovering a long lost memory…wait…surely it couldn't mean…_

"Eire, you don't think…that spell…I mean, it certainly is possible, but to cast such a spell…I didn't think I'd have the strength to, and—"

"What are you talking about, idjit?"

"That is…you don't think she could've been sent back in time do you?"

"No way you could have…we don't dabble in time magic. You know that."

"I do. And I don't cast for time spells. But I didn't intentionally cast anything. The potions mixed over my casting circle. So perhaps by accident…" Eire gave a long string of curses that even Arthur winced, and he used to be a pirate—er, _privateer_.

"There is a reason we don't do time magic." Eire sighed heavily.

"Dangerous and unpredictable, yes, I am aware. And again, it was _not_ cast on purpose!" Arthur snapped and Reilly only gave a snort.

"Alba would be able to tell if it was time magic; doubt he'd answer your calls righ' now."

"It's the only lead we have thus far. So I can trust you to call his cooperation?"

"For my nieces' sake."

"Thank you." Reilly disconnected without so-much as a goodbye. Rude.

Arthur still felt a bit queasy after the fit he experienced, but wanted to find his own proof that Anne was indeed sent back in time, and his elder brothers were not known for their timeliness. So he made his way to gather his coat and car to drive to Kirkland Castle; Alistair's welcome be damned! Some of his old ship's logs were still kept in chests where he accounted his journeys. If he met her there he'd have written about it. It was just a matter of sifting through decades upon decades of logs. The memory did little to pinpoint the year; back then ship design had remained unchanged for such a long time that their images sometimes blurred. But he would find it, if it was there. They would need to know when anyway, if they were going to pull her from it.

 _Hold on, poppet. Father is hurrying to find you._

In the past:

The days and nights were a blur of water and a simple broth being forced down her throat and strange and bitter tonic following soon after. She didn't really know what it was exactly, only that it tasted terrible but made it easier for her to sleep with all the noise and rocking of the ship. Arthur, as far as her fevered brain could sense, was always nearby standing aloof off to the side while the doctor checked her over. But when the doctor was gone, and he no longer was needed to manage the crew, he manned her bedside, replacing the cool cloth, and talking about this or that or his plans, which usually involved France and Spain if she remembered the many colorful monikers he slandered them with.

Anne knew of and experienced some of the years during that point in history that the three empires constantly clashed on lands and the seas, and even the dinner tables where they were supposedly allies, albeit temporary. And while they were steadfast ( _sort of_ ) allies in present time, they still bantered like…well, like her uncle Rhys put it, _buffoons_. The comment made her laugh, but it also made her a bit sad.

Each empire had a hand in either her creation or her rise to independence. Each had their… _quirks_ , but they were all great too.

France, for all his flamboyant enthusiasm for life and love, was knowledgeable about the mannerisms of people. He could almost predict reactions and personalities. He was wise to passionate things and enjoying things. Sure, he could be condescending to her more rustic lifestyle, but it is a big leap from her farm to his palaces.

Spain, though their relationship with each other could be tumultuous, especially during their short war together, was one of her favorites. Especially now that things had really calmed between them. They ran their countries differently and that was fine; they talked literature and food (especially if Romano was nearby) and they both loved Texas (which just embarrasses her southern bro).

And England… _Father_ taught her everything; to read and write, to dance, to speak proper. He ensured she received the best education from highly respected scholars and was always proud when she played for him simple pieces of music with her violin. It was silly, really, when she played. They were mostly simple lullabies or simplified versions of classics, but he would smile wide and clap happily whenever she played. ( _"Because you played for me, my darling! Thank you!)_ Even when they weren't getting along, Father had been one of the first to extend trade, even begrudgingly, and still encouraged her interactions (supervised) with her northern brother, Mattie.

And boy, does father have quirks. All of her relatives did, really. (To be fair, everyone does…) He can't cook to save his life, but he does _try_. It's very strange really because Uncle Reilly claims he does well with his weird potions, so how he misses with cooking she can't really tell. Luckily that trait didn't pass to her; she's no expert or gourmet but at least she doesn't set fire to her cereal (Seriously, who does that?!).

But the England here was strange; and not in the simply time-displaced-kind-of-way. He looked dangerous, but was 'kindly' so far, their first meeting notwithstanding anyway. It was like he was bipolar or something. Or was she just _that_ ill?

After a few more days of rest, with the waters getting more choppy ( _"It can be one of many signs of a coming storm, poppet, so tread the waters carefully for you cannot tell until it is far too late just how strong the tempest shall be."),_ Anne awoke feeling more alert, better, and starving for more than just an herbal broth.

"Feeling better, mistress?" Anne started at the sound of the ship's doctor that had been caring for her; despite all the fever-talk and…sea-sickness. The man had the patience of a true medicine man, that much was certain.

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Her voice was still a bit _froggy_ , but at least she was talking coherently. He nodded and poked about her throat, tilting her chin up, and asking about chest pains. She would still need the medicine a bit longer to make sure the sickness had truly passed, and be kept as dry as possible, so no gallivanting about the ship. Nope, she was sick-in-quarters until further notice. Heaven help her. Captain's quarters might be bigger than any other officer's quarters, but it was still a limited space…on a limited space of ship surrounded by ocean. Now she remembered one of the reasons sailing just wasn't her thing in her early naval years. Sea travel back then was so slow! All travel back then was so slow, but at least the cattle drives across her plains there was a change of scenery! And you were kept busy enough minding the herd that you didn't have time to be bored. And Texas was just entertaining! Ah, she missed him already.

Still, it beat floating the ocean on a stick of driftwood.

The doctor prodded her a bit more with questions before taking his leave of her to address his captain. Her captain-father was nearby watching the exchange from his desk. After a hushed conversation the doctor left and her father approached.

"'Tis good the sickness passed. The good doctor was quite worried for a bit."

"I'm sorry," Anne finally responded. She didn't know this Arthur; didn't know how to talk to him. And she hadn't forgotten the look he had before she initially passed out. _Conqueror._ Arthur gave no response to her apology, instead repositioned the chair the doctor used and sat. He scrutinized her a while, enough to make her squirm, and crossed his arms as he made himself comfortable.

"What manner of creature did you cross so violently that it would cast you into the past?" Arthur decided to waste no time in information gathering.

"Creature? No, it wasn't anything like that. It was an accident." God, it hurt to talk. Anne cleared her throat a few times before reaching to a nearby table for a glass of water placed there.

Arthur scoffed, "You know well enough how difficult time magic is. The very idea of it being accidental? Were you attempting it yourself? Very foolish, child."

"I did no such thing," Anne snapped, "Like I said it was an accident."

"I doubt I'd have allowed you to attempt such high level—"

"I don't do magic; let alone know anything about casting. I meant it when I said I wasn't a witch!" Arthur's eyes narrowed. He didn't like being interrupted, but the information took precedence.

"What do you mean, you don't cast? You're my child. Surely I would have taught you."

"You tried when I was younger…" Anne trailed off. _Tried_ would be generous. There wasn't time and her father had to return to his lands so often and for long periods. It just…never happened, beyond a few rituals at certain points in the year and small household tidbits. _Plant lavender for luck; toss spilt salt over your shoulder; dance at the right hours on special days to energize magic and honor the spirits._ She had a mixture from her family and the local tribes. "It just—Look, I do science; not magic."

"So then? How did this accident come about?" Anne hesitated. How was she to explain that horrible moment. That moments like that between them were regular. "Well?"

"Let us just say, it was in your home, some manner of potions mixed and the next thing I knew I was dropped into the middle of the ocean."

"Potions."

"Something like that. I don't quite understand it myself." Arthur nodded, accepting the vague story. Information of the future was dangerous knowledge, so he would allow her to keep as much of her secrets as possible.

"Very well. You should know that we are sailing for England as we speak. From there, I will send you back to your time."

"But you just said that time magic was dangerous."

"We don't have much choice, do we?" Her father sighed, "Staying out of your time will cause more harm than good. Lucky it was me who found you. I and your uncles will work to send you back."

"Thank you." Arthur gave a funny look before his expression changed again.

"Now then, you will need to recover your strength, but after you may explore the ship, provided you do not get in the way of the crew. You will address me as "Captain" or "Sir", and you will follow my orders, is that understood?"

"Um, sure. What would you like me to do?"

"Do?"

"Where shall I work? I know my way about a ship. I can cook. Or, stand watch…or…"

"There is no need to subject yourself to such hardships." Anne watched his brows furrow a bit. Oh right, she thought, this was a time when women really didn't have a chance to do practically anything other than sit quietly and look pretty. Ugh! She wanted to scoff, but held it in. It wouldn't be good to argue with this version of her father too. It grated on her to have to follow orders from him again, but here, now, she didn't have much choice. These centuries were not known for their kindness to women anyhow. It was pain even when she was growing up. Being told that she had to be proper, ladylike, and that certain activities were not meant for women. She hated that and made a point to prove everyone wrong, even when it angered or embarrassed her father.

"It is no hardship. Please…sir…I can be useful, once the doctor gives me leave to move about."

"I said there is no need." He glared, "Now, I have my own work. I can lend you a book if you wish or you can rest, but do try to remain silent." Anne clenched her fists and wanted to fight back, but held fast.

"No thank you." She grit out. Arthur abruptly stood and swept away to his desk, ignoring her for the rest of the day. Anne simply stared out the porthole into the vast blue of the Atlantic.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Another Update! And it comes with the usual disclaimer. I don't own Hetalia nor anything commercial mentioned. I don't know 17th century speak. Historical inaccuracies for the sake of plot, but I do try to keep it from being too far. I chose needlework simply because things like toys and games and whatnot were few and far between during these times. It was a harsh life for adults and children so playthings and hobbies just...well, there just wasn't the time and children often made up games or played simply one that could be stopped at anytime when there was work to be done. Adults lives revolved around work and maintaining the home, so no sitting around, you know? Unless you were wealthy, then you could afford books to fill your time, or you filled it with socializing, but yea...ship life, there is no ballroom or whatever. The needlework will be more explained in the next chapter as to why it was even mentioned. And very soon, Arthur and the others will come closer to getting their spell work together in the present time. Meanwhile, Anne will very soon be seeing more familiar faces in the past and how different everyone is!

CH. 5:

So remaining compliant, Anne realized, was harder than she thought. And she would laugh if it wasn't so frustrating. She really needed to work on her self-control. But once the ship's doctor gave her leave to be on her feet again she all but ran from the captain's quarters. Arthur had trailed behind her, grumbling. ( _You act as if my company was terrible!)_ And the first thing she did was grasp the deck railing and take a deep breath of fresh sea air.

And it wasn't that her father's company was terrible…exactly. Rather it was more he was talking at her and it was like she was a colony all over again. Each story he told came with a lesson only this time instead of her thrumming in her seat and hanging on his every word, she had to use considerable brain power not to fall asleep. Or roll her eyes. Or even say, "No shit, Sherlock!" Not that he'd get the reference yet. Too soon, Anne; too soon. Ah, but the urge to screw with him was there too. To say "Cheerio!" or other stereotypical things just to throw him off. It could be fun, she reasoned at one point, only to stop herself. Damn it all; adulting could be a stick-in-the-mud sometimes.

Yes, yes, girl, behave. This is the person who currently has control of your food! You don't want it to be spat in or withheld. Control yourself!

It didn't help that he'd sometimes look at her, as if to scrutinize or want to say something more, before he would think twice and go into another story of some battle or other. She was, however, interested in the stories he had about her uncles; stories he was delighted to tell once her interest was made known. Her uncles never spoke often of the past preferring to stick to more modern stories or current events and likes when she visited with them. Her uncles were fun and full of wisdom, but now she knew about their more colorful pasts, not just their national histories. Most of those stories ended with a don't-be-that-guy kind of conclusion.

The men didn't trust her. Not that she expected them to, but they didn't hesitate to call her terrible names when she past them; when Arthur wasn't near. They sneered when she offered to help. They called her a witch. As if they had no other words or couldn't fathom that she could possibly know more about sailing than they did; experience be dammed. Time would prove old practices wrong anyhow. She was trying to save lives here. She supposed the sailors (Ahem! Pirates…) of this time didn't have much in the way of education. That much was probably true.

Back then, the poorer folk didn't have the luxury of educational access. It was usually reserved for the wealthy, who had the time and money, to dedicate to educating themselves. It was the making of a broken system that created elites and sheep. She realized it very early on. It was why she tried hard to create many schools in her then, colonial nation, prompting her father to sign for land and grants to create schoolhouses and hire teachers. Reading was wonderful and thus everyone should be able to do it!

Anne sighed. Education had been a long uphill battle, even in her present time. There were still some places in her country where literacy was mediocre and education was outdated or half-assed. Unsurprisingly, it was in her poorer states. So many sociological studies to point out what she thought obvious. It would always be a battle. Changing a society was never easy without some violent catastrophe. And of course, one can't fight every problem with violence.

England had stressed education to her. It was a lesson that stuck, even as he faced the same problems as her.

"Surely there is something I can do. I can't just sit and read all day. I mean, I love to read but…I can be useful, you know."

"Absolutely not. And I will not have this argument with you again." Her captain-father growled, pouring himself a large helping of rum. Ugh! The rum back then was just…painful to drink. Not like the smoother tastes of present time. But then, food cleanliness and precise distillation didn't really exist here. At least especially in isolated places like the ports that these ships would travel. The islands of the Caribbean, like Nassau, were on their own for a very long time, she remembered. Didn't always have access to several things. And according to her questions, the islands were the last place the ship had docked before heading back to England. Anne sighed grumpily, sitting heavily in her seat across from his desk to pout at him.

And she was certainly spoiled as a child, even when her father's finances were tight. He had always made sure she had food, had clean, well-kept clothing, and a warm home. Anne wondered what her father was doing in present time. Was he looking for her? Was he even worried? The last words that ended their latest fight ran through her head and the pout melted off her face.

"What's wrong?"

"What?" she startled. She almost forgot he was sitting across from her. It was surreal sometimes; seeing this familiar face. One that didn't necessarily hate her…yet.

"I asked what was wrong."

"I guess I'm worried about everything back home, in my time." It was truth without saying what she was really thinking about.

"Understandable. All should remain; provided too much has not been changed now."

"Has something like this happened to you before?"

"Not quite," he trailed off a bit, "It hazy, but I have some memory of time traveler issues a long time ago, but I cannot recall much. However, in my own studies, time travelers can present an issue of sorts."

"Changing the future, you mean."

"Indeed. We are not naturally meant to know the future and thus time travelers present a danger. To cast time magic is also dangerous. It must be precise, takes much energy, and can easily go wrong."

"Should we be casting it then?"

"As I said, we don't have much choice in the matter, do we?" he said wryly, "You cannot remain here. We don't know what your prolonged presence might do to your future, never mind what it could do to you physically." Anne let that digest a moment. It all seemed like such a headache…and a potential death sentence. What if she died here? What would that mean for her country? Would another personification simply be born? Or would Texas and Canada simply absorb it? She really didn't want to think about it. Death, _permanent death_ , had never really crossed her mind until recent events. Not even 9/11 scared her this much; and _that_ was a little scary, or at least painful.

"So if we aren't meant to know the future, then why do we see fortune tellers?"

Arthur surprised her with a laugh, "Have you ever had your fortune read?"

"Not that I remember."

"Seeing a fortune teller, no matter the tools they use for it, cannot tell you the exact future that is coming your way. They can only give hints surrounding your person, not the world, which as a person you affect. It would not be possible really, as so many things drive the future mysteries. They may tell you telling hints about you and what you will feel, potential outside energies you will encounter. But telling things, such as one's death, no, that isn't how these mediums work."

"What about oracles? Don't they see the future?"

"Rarest of the rare they are. And they only see one potential future. But the future can change, be it a shift in fate or by receiving knowledge of the future the receiver changes it. Either way, the cosmos will try to fix this. And sometimes…"

"It can be catastrophic?"

"Yes."

And on that lovely note, Anne thought, it's time to change the topic. She glanced about the cabin for something to distract her. Arthur continued writing in his log.

Present Time:

Arthur had been scouring through his old logs for the entirety of the evening. His back ached from sitting on the dusty floor in the storage room and his elder brother blatantly refused to provide him any refreshment; he had to get it himself. Honestly! A terrible host indeed! His stomach grumbled and he sighed, reluctant to stand in case his knees creaked. He looked no older than his twenties, but some days he felt as if he were in his fifties. Some days there were aches and pain; and a fatigue that never seemed to completely fade. He'd always thought his elder brothers, who had centuries over him, to be malingering when they complained of tiredness; especially during the great wars. But now that he was feeling it himself, he marveled at their perseverance. Blast! He was barely halfway through the first chest and he several more waiting to be opened.

Arthur looked over the old chests that kept his old ship logs and other trinkets from his exploration days. Old maps and tools, his favorite coat, a cutlass incased in glass, and….unfinished needlework? He stared at it a moment, noting that it was a handkerchief, and the tiny flowers on it were definitely sewn by an inexperienced hand, upon closer inspection. _How did this get here?_ Arthur didn't start embroidery nor any sort of needlecraft until after the Americas had been fully colonized.

The wars over the New World had depleted many of the then empires finances. Arthur had Anne to care for, and then later Matthieu; simply going to a tailor for new clothes wasn't always possible. So Arthur had learned to make simple clothing; knitting them scarves and gloves for winter and sewing designs on their clothes so that they could have something nice looking, even if it wasn't designer or professionally made. It was a long string of trial and error, but neither Anne nor Mattie complained. No; they'd been too young to understand how money worked; simply excited when Arthur brought them anything. Even so; they'd all learn eventually for the sake of the children. Rhys was a better knitter with his more dexterous hands, Alistair had the patience to weave blankets (even if he did insist on _his_ colors, the git!), and Reilly could darn anything from shirts to shoes and make them last months longer. Arthur's best thing was embroidery and so he perfected his craft so Matthieu's shirts and coats had to right kind of filigree and Anne's dresses sported sweet little flowers.

But the time his empire expanded and his wealth replenished however, such frugalities were no longer needed, and his later children enjoyed professionally tailored clothing, but still, he would occasionally sew or knit for them.

But all those crafts were at his personal residence, how did that end up here? Arthur grunted as he stood (Damn his knees!) and reached for the unfinished piece. The coloring to the thread had faded into dull sepia hues and was still incased in its embroidery hoop. The poor handkerchief was dirtied, it looked charred in some spots which he found strange. The flowers were supposed to be thistles, if he saw the patterns correct. No, he'd never sew thistles; if only to spite his Scottish brother. He'd sooner do clovers than thistle.

Arthur sensed the sharp ache of a migraine before it arrived. He sat heavily on a nearby train chest and tried to breathe through the pain while also trying to focus on the new flashes of images, but they blurred by so quickly it was difficult to place any setting or action.

The last sensation his mind supplied was the sound and scent of cannon fire.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long! I got stuck as to how I wanted to proceed and then got distracted by another story! Plus, work; it gets in the way sometimes! I hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving! I did a road trip to WA to see family for mine and I took my dogs, so that was fun and very tiring! And I'll be doing the same for Xmas, but it'll be all the way to Texas! I can't wait too; I miss my home state! Anyways, I'll keep working on it, and I want to thank everyone for their reviews!

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or its characters!

Notes: Historical inaccuracies for the sake of plot. Some character OOC-ness also for plot. I'm trying to write this so it falls into the next story, so hopefully this works.

Ch.6:

Anne knew she seriously didn't have the hand for things like this. She cursed quietly after pricking her finger a third time. The piece wasn't anything special, or even that great, but she needed to be busy before she flung herself off the ship from boredom. Arthur had provided her the tools from some random chest that had so obviously belonged to someone else before. It made her wonder about the 'plundering' bit that must've happened prior to her drop into the ocean. Did they not check the contents of the other ships they raided?

It was from this trunk that Arthur was able to procure a dress for her; where the slightly ill-fitting corset and hair pins had come from; where the shoes and undergarments were pilfered from; where the perfume and bath oils had be tucked into. And it was where the sewing tools she was currently trying to master had come from. There were plain handkerchiefs in the trunk. Embroidery was a 'woman's pastime' and since Arthur kept her away from the men and mainly in his quarters with his books and whatever contents she found in the trunk, she tried to amuse herself. And she decided to try to embroider some to present as gifts for her uncles that she'd be able to meet soon. Arthur had said it shouldn't be more than a week or two at sea, depending on the wind. When he wasn't in his quarters with her, she tucked into his desk to study the maps he left atop and try to gather as much information as she could. She wanted to know the exact date, but he kept his log under lock and key, and unfortunately, though Uncle Reilly taught her to pick locks, she wasn't fast enough before Arthur would step in for another drink or to check on her.

She knew that _he_ knew, or at least suspected that she was studying the maps. And Anne believed it was because of one of the many surprises she found about his quarters. Fairies. She heard them before she spotted them, but they'd startled her during the first dinner since she woke, trying to steal away some of the dried berries off her plate. Arthur swatted them away, more amused than chastising, chatting about how they bound themselves to him so they could travel from his lands.

Anne knew he spoke to fairies all the time. At least that he claimed to. She could never see them. Magic had never been a major part of her life, or not how she understood it. For her, growing up around the tribes, the spirits were natural things. Sometimes they were forces or within animals and trees and such. And all things were explained (eventually) by science. For her, science and magic were one in the same. Not all of it could be explained, but someday they would be. Even the concepts of the skin-walkers or the Weres; even scary things she's ran from and fought like the Wendigo. It wasn't that she didn't believe or know magic; it was that her experiences were different. Her perception of them was different than Arthur's and her uncles. She didn't see his magic, with the twinkling fairies or Flying Mint Bunny that made him smile. More often than not, the creatures she saw were monsters. He met dragons and unicorns, could cast spells like in Harry Potter with his wand. And sometimes she thought she saw hints of these things, but with the sciences and technology rising in sudden bursts, magic just seemed to fade into background noise.

She wasn't sure why she couldn't see her father's magic. She wanted to ask, but every time he asked if she could see the fairies or Mint and she said 'no' he just seemed…unhappy. Just another disappointment she gave him.

No. Magic wasn't new. It was just that her magic was more…earthy? It was movement of the elements. Like Native tribes' personifications taught her; to be a medium between the spirits. Not to command, but to work together to maintain the balance of nature. Her 'magic' was herbs and song and dance. Just _different_.

And in the early years of colonization and beyond, anything that wasn't "Christian" was frowned upon, to put it lightly. _Yea, lightly_. If you were suspected of anything "un-Christian" or even if somebody didn't like you, you were accused of being a witch and were killed. Anne hated the radical Puritan views. So many people, _so many women_ , were needlessly killed. Even Anne had been accused of witchcraft, because her herbal remedies were "unconventional" and of course that made it the "Devil's work". Anne had to allow herself to be killed and coordinated for one of the Native personifications to retrieve her body so she could resurrect _above_ ground.

Even Arthur had to be, had warned her, to be careful. Even in modern times, there will still people who just violently opposed anything that they didn't understand. Not that there weren't those who would use whatever means to attack others, but honestly, the paranoia and hatefulness was starting to get ridiculous.

So here she was: trying to embroider a handkerchief for one of her uncles. And the thistle just wasn't coming out like she'd imagined in her head. Anne sighed in frustration; her stomach was starting to grumble too. She could vaguely hear the shouts from the crew outside and movement. And for a moment, she considered just saying 'screw it' and leaving the stateroom. Her father would be pissed, that was for sure. Anne sighed again, placing her work down, and standing to stretch.

She'd almost forgotten what cannon fire sounded like, but the instinct was there. She threw herself to the ground and hoped it didn't impact. It didn't, but it sure as hell was close. The ship rattled and creaked, and it swayed from the crash in the water. The men were shouting. Anne picked herself up and stumbled to the doors to wretch it open.

The crew was running about the ship and loading the cannons. When she followed their movement she saw another ship in the distance, but not the colors; she needed a looking glass. Her embroidery was still in her hands as she ran as quickly as her dress would allow her to a higher deck. She heard the command to fire and several cannons blasted loudly; shuddering the entire ship. Arthur was standing over the crew on the deck she'd just climbed to; shouting commands and instructing his First Mate. More blasts and the other ship was steadily coming closer.

At their Captain's commands, the crew moved quickly, but the other ship was close in range now, Anne noted with dread. She remembered these naval battles; one good hit could ruin everything. The ship could be badly damaged, crew killed, or even the ship is lost. She braced herself as a cannon managed to hit, taking out a part of the upper deck rail. The men dodged and the cannon but several crates were damaged.

Their ship fired again and through the haze Anne finally saw the ship's colors. She could've sworn she'd seen the flag before, but couldn't place it. She went through her memories of the pirate flags she'd seen and some that were described to her; from Calico Jack to Charles Vane.

There had been so many pirates during the past several centuries; practically a fad and romanticized then and in the future. And she could see why; there was a thrill and the stories of fighting against the empire, of being the underdog. Well, it appealed to those who also felt beat down by the famed Royal Navy. And Anne had fought her fair share of pirates as well. Hell, she and Jefferson had a hell of time keeping them from her trade; they have a song about it. And her father had spent several times in his study, during those years, complaining about them.

She couldn't dwell much further though; Arthur had spotted her. He shouted a command at her to return to his quarters, but another blast had soared past the crew and damaged one of the ratlines of the main sail and the sail itself. And when trying to ire back only a few men were rushing to save the rest of the sail from tearing completely in the winds. Anne could already tell that the ships were close enough to probably stop firing, to avoid sinking, and aim for boarding and fighting with swords instead. But saving the main sail came first, she noted, and there weren't enough men working to pull it up. She dropped the handkerchief, still in its loop, and raced towards the main mast to climb and help.

Stuck in the past or not, she was still stronger than normal human men. Climbing the remnant of the ratlines was hard enough on its own with little to hold it steady; it was even worse in a dress, but she'd managed, ignoring the shock on the men's faces and grasped a rope or the sail.

"Stop staring and help, you idiots!" She shouted and they sprang into action. She could pull it by herself, but there was more than one rope to raise the large sails, she took one and the others raised the rest. Her focus was on securing the sail that when she looked down again, the pirates of the other ship were swinging across and the fight began. Anne had no weapons on her. She could use her fists, but…but…

She wasn't afraid of the fight. She thought back to her conversations with Arthur about time travelers disrupting everything. She didn't have the same connections to her lands as she did before. Shipboard fights were always chaotic. What if she died? Or rather, what if she couldn't resurrect?

So this is what the fear of death was? Anne would've laughed if it didn't frustrate her. But it was a fight nevertheless and some of the men didn't look like they were doing well. And Anne was a hero! Heroes don't run and hide. So risking permanent death it was, eh? Well, they already thought her an evil witch; why not show them this _witch_ can fight too? One of the men shouted as Anne simply dropped from the post and landed rather hard on an unsuspecting enemy pirate. Anne decided that was lucky because it relieved him of his sword, which, while not her best weapon of choice, she knew how to utilize well enough. Uncle Alistair had been adamant she learn the basics of many weapons and not just guns, despite protests from her father and Uncle Rhys. _Not ladylike_ , pshaw! Anne was never really a lady anyway.

She was a woman; proud and unapologetic! And she was a nation!

Anne smiled wide and with an impressive battle cry jumped into the fray.

Present time:

Arthur had thrown up what little he had in stomach into an old urn that was fortunately near the chest he was sitting on. He head hurt terribly. Alistair had come up at some point, seeing his state, left and then returned with water. He was currently soaking his handkerchief and placing it on the back of Arthur's neck.

"Don't forget to breathe, Albion." Arthur coughed and grabbed the cloth on his neck to wipe his mouth.

"I'm alright, brother."

"Eire mentioned visions. This another one?"

"I—Yes. This one was intense. It came when I saw the handkerchief."

"Handkerchief?"

"Yes." Arthur reached down to grab the tattered cloth where he'd dropped it and handed it to his elder brother. "She—Anne was making that for you. She'd been planning to make one for each of you; her uncles." Alistair inspected it with a small smirk.

"Didn't know she knew how. When did ya teach her?"

"I didn't. Never got the chance to. She taught herself it seems."

"Could use some practice." The Scotsman chuckled, but tucked it into his pocket.

"She taught herself at sea, on her way to England." Arthur felt his vision blur a moment before focusing on his brother again. "Alba. I know where she is." Alistair perked up.

"Where? When?"

"It was upon my return to England from the Caribbean islands; after I'd escorted a new Governor." Arthur pushed several chests out of his way and pulled open the one he'd been looking for. He reached in and pulled several logs out, searching dates, and tossing some aside. Finding a large brown log, with cracked and tattered leather, he opened it and scanned the pages until he found the entry he was looking for. "Ah! Here! Alba, look here." Alistair peered over Arthur's shoulder to the entry. And there he read through his brother's past entry on the time traveler; of the startling news of a daughter.

The entry was written with fervent and excitement in his brother's familiar scrawl, practically gushing about his soon-to-be achievement. Ugh! Alistair almost forgot just how much of an utter arse their youngest sibling was in those years. He wasn't as bad now, but even so…a complete, utter dick. Poor, poor Anne. Alistair took note of the date and stood again.

"Alright then. Your past self will be taking her to your hallowed grounds. We'll be there too, be ready for her and channel our magic from our end. We should be able to pull her back. Sooner the better." And with that the Scotsman turned to leave. "You clean that bucket out yerself!"

Arthur rolled his eyes, despite the pain it caused his still aching head. And gathered a few more logs to take with him. He wanted to read more of what his past-self had written about her time aboard. Despite how excited Arthur was to have figured out what time she had fallen into, and the luck that she had fallen near _him_ , he was still worried. This version of himself was not one she had met before. He'd been more prone to violence. It was not the persona he'd cultivated in himself once he'd found a toddler America wandering the New World's wilderness; when his status as an empire had been established with his settlements finally taking root.

Once he'd accepted his role as a father he'd forced himself to be a role model. To carry himself with more dignity, to be a gentleman, and work to ensure his child was properly educated in what it meant to be a colony to an empire. He'd made it very clear to his brothers that they'd have to be on their best behavior as well if they wanted to even see her. Rhys had been quick to mind his words and had doted upon his niece readily with fairytales and little games for them to play. Alistair and Reilly had been a longer fight. They'd completely bypassed his wishes and met the child on their own while he was out.

But seeing the joy on his little daughter's face when she excitedly told him later that she had more than one uncle…well, he couldn't very well keep them from her any longer. Even so, they at least tried to curb their more unsavory habits around her. And Anne adored them all; often presenting each of them with flowers she'd picked or seashells she'd found. He knew Rhys still had a wooden box full of the little trinkets she'd found especially for her Welsh uncle. Rhys would be embarrassed to admit it so, but wouldn't deny it if asked. He wasn't sure of the other two. Arthur himself had kept them all as well, with several volumes of pressed flowers and other little gifts she presented him with.

He'd tried to keep his past-self buried beneath volumes of history and half-truths; to paint this different vision of himself. He didn't want her to see that side; that violent side, or his untrusting side. He didn't want her to end up resenting him or disliking him, as things had turned out between him and his brothers; with the centuries of war and squabbles.

Arthur gave a sardonic laugh. It appeared he had done so anyway with they way he and Anne always seemed to argue. They were so much alike; in as many ways as they were different. She had a sharp, quick wit to match his own. Their arguments could last hours with neither wanting to admit defeat because they both also had pride. Virtues and vices. But he could be hurtful without even blinking an eye; a trait he'd cultivated to protect his heart (and his ego) against the wits of his eldest brother, Rhys, and to compensate his lack of physical strength against his second eldest brother, Alistair.

But Anne was the type to take hurtful words straight to her heart. Collected them like he had kept her little gifts in a box. And because they were kept so closely, she never forgot them. And they would sear themselves onto the walls of her heart, tainting every other interaction. Like trying to hide a stain by covering it up, but you can still see it from another angle.

It was his flaw; his fault because between them he was the elder; the parent. He should not act so; not with his daughter, not with any of his children. But as he said, old habits and scars and all that. He said he would be better, and so he must try.

He just hoped she was alright. He also hoped she wouldn't judge him too harshly for the person he was.


	7. Chapter 7

Hey everyone! Thank you for your patience! It's been busy since the holidays ended; so much to do! New clients; new projects! I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

In the Past:

Anne would probably never say that what happened post-battle was anything like one would think to happen in the movies or stories. It wasn't as if she suddenly earned the respect of the men and suddenly they could all sit side-by-side and laugh and sing and drink. No, rather they were impressed and instead of insults the men kept silent and parted ways when she moved. Which was fine with Anne. They didn't have to like her, but they needed to understand that they couldn't take her down. Whether that made her a witch or not, well, that was an argument for another day.

Arthur, predictably, was furious. The moment they managed to end the fight and tie up the enemy crew placing them in the brig; Arthur made a beeline for her and snatched her by the arm. He practically tossed her into the captain's quarters and slammed the door shut. For her part, Anne tried to hold in her sigh, but at the fury sparking in her father's eyes, she gave up trying. He practically growled at her sigh.

"What in God's name did you think you were doing?"

"I would have thought it obvious, _Captain_. I helped fight for _your_ ship."

"Do you have any idea how dangerous—"

"Well aware, in fact! This isn't the first naval battle, even against pirates, that I have been in. Give me some credit; I _do_ know how to fight."

"Fighting is not for a girl to partake in. You were ordered to stay in my quarters."

" _Woman_. And if I were a human woman with no fighting experience then I would have taken heed. I am not. I was trained by some the best fighters in the world. I learned naval tactics from watching _you_."

"Why would you need to, _child_ , I would've protected you!" Arthur had been stepping closer to get in her face about it, but Anne stood her ground. It didn't matter how much stronger than her he was at the moment; she was afraid during her revolution, but she wasn't afraid now.

"Protect me from whom; yourself? Because you were my first war!" If the news of her fighting in battles was startling for Arthur, this next bit was a punch to the gut. She'd fought against _him_. Suddenly, all the hopes he had for better relations with her than what he had with his brothers shattered into dust. Why? Why did they fight?

"What are you talking about?" he said tightly.

"My independence. I'm not a colony; I am a full-fledged nation. And I am not a child." _But you are_ my _child_ , Arthur thought. But his anger reared full force. If she fought for her independence than it was not by his choice. The betrayal was on her part.

"You betrayed me. You would forsake your father…"

"I disagree. I had, _have_ , every right to my freedom as a nation; to not be owned by autocrats who viewed me and mine as lesser; as unworthy."

"Foolhardy and naïve, is what I see. Perhaps their assessment was true!" Arthur shouted, "Devious, ungrateful, little wretch."

"I did not ask for anything! I have never asked you for anything! Not here, not then! You, however, insist and demand. And then expect me to just fall upon my sword the moment you ask. It is not generosity if it comes with terms and conditions." She was shouting back, "And you are right; I was naïve. And too trusting. So, I fought for myself! And I don't regret it; I learned from my uncles; from France, Spain, and Prussia. And in the end, I was naïve with them too. But still I fought, won, and you have hated me ever since!"

The slap didn't hurt, not really. But her knuckles certainly did when she struck back. It sucks being this powerless, she had as an afterthought when she was confined to a very small cabin with only bread and water. Apparently, the brig was too full, and she _had_ helped put those men in there. _Shame_ , Anne thought spitefully, _a mutiny might've been the perfect revenge._ But she also knew she wouldn't have done it.

She glanced at the embroidery hoop that one of the crew had snuck in for her. It was tattered from the soot and being stomped on in the fray, but the hoop miraculously survived. With nothing else to do, she picked it up and worked to try and complete it. She cursed again when she pricked her finger once more.

In the present:

Arthur couldn't stop the dread that had settled in his stomach as he read his logs. He sat in the passenger side of Rhys' car as they made their way to Stonehenge, with Alistair and Reilly in the backseats holding some of their gear and bickering over heaven knows what. A part of Arthur was grateful that he'd always been meticulous with his logs; keeping them detailed as possible. He as able to read the details of her time with him. On the other hand…well, they were not getting along well.

It made his chest ache with the scathing words his past-self wrote about her. News of her revolution had surfaced then, and the news was not well-received. And it was post-battle where she had endangered herself by fighting his enemies without care. Typical America. Arthur felt torn between being fondly exasperated and worry-filled anger.

That always seemed to be the case for Arthur when thinking of his eldest daughter; torn between two different feelings. Impressed that she had managed to win war after war; angry that she was fighting at all. Amused when she would become excited over new things; worried that she was getting involved in risky endeavors. Happy that she got on well with her uncles and siblings; jealous that his relationship with her was still strained. Proud at her achievements; sad that she has no need of him anymore.

That was the core of it wasn't it? She didn't need him anymore; try as he might to insist that she still had much to learn. But she had flourished without him and now she was at the top. And he tried to be proud of her, but being at the top wasn't all roses. No, enemies were everywhere and more abundant the more powerful one got. He knew it from personal experience. And despite their separation, he still tried to shield her from these things.

But she just soared through life. While he had no choice but to watch from afar; worrying and hoping that no harm awaited her around corners. Never mind that she _could_ fight, the point he tried to show was that she shouldn't _have_ to fight. On deaf ears it fell, for she dived head first into every fight, for every person who called for her aid. He would find himself feeling hateful towards other nations who called for her help in their conflicts, taking advantage of her kindness, of her strangely strict personal code of heroism, to swoop in a blast through the issue only to lash out at her for doing as they asked. Another thing the former empire was familiar with. That is how it was when you dominated the world; every problem was _your_ problem, and every consequence was _your_ fault.

Perhaps that was why she was an advocate for continued UN cooperation, for globalization. Some older nations, archaically traditional nations, fought hard against her for it. Globalization was a new, modern term. One they defined as a threat; of her trying to claim the world _legally_ , but he knew his daughter better. It was never about world domination. It was about global cooperativeness and global accountability. Like the League of Nations was supposed to be; like the UN is supposed to be once everyone got on board.

Arthur read through a few more lines, throat full and chest heavy, before they had finally stopped for the night. They'd left so late for the near ten hour drive from Kirkland Castle to the hallowed stone structure; his siblings could only be in a confined space for so long. They agreed to lodge somewhere in Manchester. As much as Arthur would have liked to already be at his destination, if the logs were anything to go by, it would be a short while before Anne and his past self would even make it to the isle. Still, the waiting is something that could drive a man to madness. Or just make him really irritated, he thought, as his elder brothers argued over what to eat. Sighing, he placed the logbook atop his luggage and tried to tune out his siblings until they finally came to some manner of decision. He was too distracted to really care.

In the Past:

Anne knew she was spoiled; she was too used to the better quality of life the future afforded her. There was no need to hunt and store for bitter, cold winters; food was in abundance in her nation. Her Virginian home was warm in winters and cool in summers. It wasn't like the colonial days or her early years as a nation. Still, it wasn't like she couldn't handle the rougher, more rustic life. Hell, Texas _loved_ their long camping trips.

But if she didn't have to endure then…well, they were modern conveniences for a reason.

Having said that, this bread and water, confined to quarters was getting to her. Never mind that such punishment was a long standing naval tradition. It was boring. So boring! And she didn't believe she'd done anything wrong. Not really anyway. One could only stare out a porthole, at endless blue, for so long. And the handkerchief was as good as it was going to get.

But she didn't know how long he was going to keep her here. Or what point he was trying to make…other than obedience. Anne sighed and plucked at the threads in her petticoat. Much to the embarrassment of whatever crew was required to feed and water her, she'd dressed down for comfort's sake. The porthole provided little in the way of airflow when the winds were in different direction. It made the room stifling and muggy. She throw her shawl over herself whenever anyone entered, but still, she was technically walking about in her underwear.

Whatever. Propriety and decorum was often silly and overrated anyway. And was just plain exhausting in the 18th and 19th centuries. So many rules and hidden meaning; nonsense! The lot of it! And who really gives a damn what others think?

Her father had stressed that ill reputation would affect trade and alliances. Well, she had those in spades, even with those that didn't think highly of her. The running gag was that everyone hated America, in one way or another; or at some point or another. It hurt, even when she told herself that it didn't. What did it matter how everyone else felt if they all worked towards the greater good anyway? And there were those that didn't hate her; Texas and Molossia for example. They loved each other. So what did anyone else matter?

They didn't, is what she'd finally told herself. She knew and accepted that it would always be her against the world. And that was fine. Tiring, but fine. Besides, there was no longer any room to be sad, right? Not when there was so much to do in the world.

And she was already feeling stretched thin. And just so tired…


	8. Chapter 8

Hey guys, I know this took forever, but I when I can't write, I can't write. And I certainly don't want to force it because then I don't like what comes out. But I want to thank everyone for their reviews and favorites! And to answer one reviewer, I did indeed take inspiration from AppleofDiscord! Their work is phenomenal and her versions of each character (including the names of the UK brothers, but I have seen those names used in other stories, so I thought it was simply fandom agreed, head-cannons names), are spot-on! At least, they're exactly what I imagined them to be! And the story is perfect! If anyone here has not read her Kith & Kin series, I highly recommend them. They will tear your heart out and stomp on it, then patch the poor organ back together, before shattering it all over again, and then suddenly makes you laugh. Beautiful!

We are going to meet Wales soon! Which will add a new dynamic to the plot! I love Wales and can't wait to write him-I see him as this loving, but in a really stuntedly-awkward way, kind of person. Like, wanted to be the big brother, but back then, slow-travel and tribe wars just...didn't leave much time. And the brothers are all kind of like that, so it ended up being a bit dysfunctional. Their in-fighting certainly didn't help-but Wales had been assimilated (or politically conquered) by England longer and more steadfastly than the others, so I reason that Arthur's most stable relationship is with Rhys. (Which makes sense to my interpretation, and maybe I am wrong, but after the decline of Welsh tribal kingdoms, after dealing with Nordic Vikings, and then I threw Arthurian legend-timeline in there...Rhys and Arthur working together steadily...well, it works.) Rhys is also, in my opinion, the most knowledgeable with magic, having spent the most time with their mother and because of his age. They all have their specialties, but in my head, Rhys is the book-smart, well-read-hermit kind of wisdom (which is why I had him called "Myrddin" in another memory, which will be important waaay later).

Some of my history may be off, but I did it for plot purposes, trying to stay a bit vague for it. But during the age of exploration, around the time of Elizabeth I, there were many different political plots; from Mary, Queen of Scots to Phillip of Spain to the French to the Dutch...it was a mess. Practically everyone was trying to undermine everyone in order to gain power. And that's just the political side of it, there were other internal problems (like with the poor groups, the aristocracy, the religious groups, the morality defenders, etc)...it was a lot. So, like I said, Rhys is Arthur's most stable (though not perfect) relationship, but with the other two it isn't so great. And that will be fun to write about later too.

Anyway, thank you for your patience! Enjoy!

Ch. 8:

Arthur awoke with a pounding headache and grumbled at the sound of Rhys trying to coax him awake. Headaches, he imagined, would be frequent so long as his daughter stayed stuck in the past. Her presence inevitably changed some things. And of course, the frequent calls from America's government. He'd told them she was feeling ill, but that lie wouldn't hold, he knew. In fact, he wondered why his own government hadn't called to inform him of the arrival of delegates to see him. He was fielding calls from both Francis and Mattie as well; having somehow heard of America's "illness" and silence. Mattie was worried, but he knew Francis was suspicious. He just hoped Mathieu wouldn't give his number to Texas. The last thing the Englishman needed was to talk to the cowboy nation; Texas was oddly attached to America.

Despite all this, however, Arthur couldn't stop the rush of fondness when seeing some of the memories of her; a little sadness as well. They've spent more time together in this misadventure than they had in years. It was thrilling and bittersweet. It was always exciting around the young nation. Had to be, really, what with how the young upstart just seemed to boom into greatness overnight, if one compared the reign of America to the rise of the other, older empires. Not even Rome had risen so fast. Arthur shook his head; he didn't like to think of the old, late empire. Too many bad memories for him and his brothers. Especially when he'd finally rid himself of the old warlord in Rome's decline. Arthur had thought that they'd finally have peace, but invasions and would-be conquerors were ever at their door. Arthur finally decided to break tradition and make himself a figurehead amongst his own people.

His brothers chastised him for it, but helped nonetheless. With their access to magic, it made driving back the invaders more attainable, but eventually, despite all the good it did, Arthur had to allow himself to "die" and subsequently erase his personal kingdom from history as much as possible; their magic had become too public which made things dangerous. It didn't stop legends from forming, Arthur thought with a snort— _the Once and Future King, indeed_. It was flattering, if not a little ludicrous; particularly the made up nonsense of Guinevere, who was real but not as integral to his life as many more "romantic" variations seemed to want her to be. Now, most seem to think _that,_ that is, her alleged marriage to him and her alleged affair with Lancelot, is the true telling, when really it was a change implemented centuries later as a patriarchal tool for controlling the behavior of women.

The Kirkland brothers knew better than to downplay to role and power of women; their mother made sure they learned that lesson well.

Even so, changing the story, _his story_ , fantastical as it may be, _was_ a little insulting. But no matter, that was centuries ago— _5_ _th_ _\- 6_ _th_ _century_ , Arthur thought—and thinking of that past would serve him nothing now. But memory of his time in Camelot surfaced, as memories do, and Arthur winced as an image of court flashed by; with him on the throne, his brothers at his side, speaking to some blonde noblewoman before them. Arthur shook his head again and tried to quell the nausea. Finally pulling himself from the rather uncomfortable bed, he'd glanced at his elder brother, Wales—during that tumultuous time, Arthur thought with a small smile, they called him _Myrddin_ —and barely dodged the swipe from his other brother, Scotland.

"What're yeh smiling about like a idjit for?"

"Memories, is all." Arthur scowled and left for the bathroom to scrub his face. He wasn't able to stomach much for breakfast later, nor did he feel up to reading more of his logs.

In the Past:

Anne wasn't entirely sure how she could tell, but land was definitely on the horizon. It was one of those weird personification things, she thought; sensing land. Whenever she had died at sea, she could almost gauge how long until she revived on land. Directions…well, that was a whole other can of worms. She never did have a great sense of direction outside of her lands. But she could feel it and with it, the anticipation to be off the ship grew. It was only this morning that her punishment of confinement ended. Anne emerged from the stuffy quarters into the open air of the main deck, feeling gross and underfed, and was surprised for the slew of sympathetic glances from the crew. _'Bout effing time, really._

Arthur stood perched on the quarter deck, back straight and arms crossed, looking down at her. She wondered just what the hell he was expecting from her. Was she supposed to fall on her knees and beg forgiveness now, o' great and fearsome captain? _Ha_! _How about no._ Anne straightened her posture as well and glared back because no, she wasn't broken. Arthur rolled his eyes and Anne stuck out her tongue. She turned on her heel to enjoy the open air on the opposite deck. ( _'This part is the forecastle deck, poppet. See here, on the model? It's right across from the quarter deck. It's one of my favorite places on a ship.'_ ) Leaning against the railing as the winds blew by, she could see the coasts of what was probably Ireland or South England, she couldn't tell which from the distance. Then again, it had been so long since she'd seen either from a sea faring point of view, she wasn't entirely sure if she'd recognize the lands even if she were closer.

"We make land soon, Miss. The wind is perfect." One of the crew addressed as he walked by with some mooring lines.

"Thank you."

"Cap'n will be wanting to speak with yeh."

"Alright." Anne tried not to scowl. She would take her damn time getting there _that_ was for sure. But make her way she did, knocking on the doors to the Captain's quarters and awaiting his consent, because, you know, that's the polite thing to do. "One of your crew said you wanted to speak with me."

"Indeed. Have a seat." A large breakfast was occupying the majority of the impressive desk and Arthur gestured towards a second plate. "Help yourself."

Anne had half a mind to refuse out of spite, but years of starvation had influenced her to never turn down food or skip a meal; no matter what. You never knew when a meal would be your last for a while. Even so, her portion was small. After so long on bread and water, her stomach felt small and clenched at the thought of anything heavy. If her father noticed, he didn't say anything for it.

"We shall be reaching land soon. I'll have to set my crew to manage without me; after that, we can meet your Uncle Rhys at our usual tavern. I'll have to explain the situation as he is not expecting you, of course, but he will help us prepare everything we need.

"Uncle Rhys?" Anne was surprised to meeting that Uncle so soon. It wasn't that they didn't get along. No, they got on well enough. He was reserved and quite the loner-type; preferring to stay home and only socialize when necessary. Anne could definitely respect that. He didn't approve of her much in the same way her father didn't approve of her, however, and often that found him with a slight frown or stern countenance to his face. He sometimes made her uneasy with how sharp eyed, and sharp-witted he was. Anne was smart, in her own way; she could out-science anyone, but other things, like the classics, well…she could pass a test, but she was no expert. _And another one for the long list of 'Things-wrong-with-America'_. Even so, while her other two uncles were the _fun_ ones, in that they let her get away with adventuring without getting over worried or angry at her for her sometimes-crazy actions, her eldest uncle was peace and quiet because even _she_ needed to unwind and get away. If there was one thing they could agree upon, at least before, was good hot cocoa and a good fiction; for quiet discussion or sometimes silence that needn't be filled with chatter, just turning pages and a crackling fire. Those moments were rare, but cherished.

It had been a long time since she'd been able to simply _be_ , let alone share that with her uncle, Anne thought sadly.

"Is there a problem with your Uncle?" Arthur felt a small twinge of satisfaction that he wasn't the only one that had a difficult relationship with his daughter. He also felt guilty for feeling that too; it wasn't her fault that he didn't have the best relationship with his brothers after all, despite his wishes that things be different. And it probably wasn't her fault, _entirely_ , that she had problems with his Welsh brother. Rhys wasn't unkind, exactly, but he was very blunt and open with his opinions. He was traditional and introverted, which sometimes made him seem cold. Couple that with the willful child his daughter turned out to be and he could imagine that they clashed. But he also wondered if it was also influenced by his own poor relations that affected theirs. And that didn't sit well with him in the end. His problems with his siblings shouldn't extend to his children, it wasn't fair.

"No, of course not. I was just…surprised, I suppose."

"In what way?" Arthur found himself greedily curious about some of her commentary, especially, it seems, when it came to her relations.

"I—well, I guess, I expected it'd be Uncle Alistair or Uncle Reilly, that would meet you." Having to explain her thoughts kind of caught her off-guard. "Uncle Rhys always seemed to handle sedentary affairs instead, you know, for the state—or kingdom, while Uncle Alistair tended to prefer moving about to handle things, even if it meant errands. Uncle Reilly was kind of the same, I suppose."

' _Interesting_.' Arthur soaked in her words. He wouldn't disagree with that assessment, per say, but, well, he and the Scotsman weren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment. He thought to the recent discords between their people and their noble houses and—Arthur sighed—it was always such a mess. And Reilly...Arthur bit back a sigh; was there ever a time he and his brothers _weren't_ fighting about something?

"I suppose that is understandable," he finally said, watching her carefully nibble on a dry biscuit and nimbly pick at the dried fruit. She wasn't eating much. "Nevertheless, he was the one available and set to meet me. I imagine he will be surprised to see you."

"Well, I _am_ rather unexpected." Anne shrugged. _'In more ways than one.'_ Was Arthur's thought.

"He will be able to lend some assistance once he understands the situation."

"Good to hear."

There were so many things Arthur wanted to say, to ask, and to hear. He never did, or rather never allowed himself to. He would blame it on the rules of time magic, and while that reasoning would suffice, it wasn't the whole truth. A part of him was afraid of what else he might learn. What he knew already was surprising and a bit disturbing. It was clear that their arguing was nothing new; she was almost resigned to it. It was noticeable under her bravado and tenacity; the weariness in her eyes and the tension of her shoulders. And it had him wondering even more; did she fight everyone or just him?

"Once we make port, you need to remain close. You have no papers. I will vouch for you, but without me you will be questioned and detained."

"Papers?"

"Of your identity and purpose; for those who travel. Can't have spies entering the country." Anne was a bit surprised, but then thought that she shouldn't be. She may not know the exact year, but she did remember that the monarchy of the time had been experiencing many troubles with insurgents and plots and the like; she'd read about it...at some point. What was it; the Tudor dynasty? Or was it later?

"I see." She shuddered at the 'detained' word, because it usually translated to torture. And after being confined-to-quarters for days on end she had no desire to be placed in another box. ' _So this is really it then,'_ she thought, _"I'll have to follow him around and be commanded like a puppy; like a colony.'_ The individual in her raged at the thought, but her more sensible side shrewdly concluded that it was a necessary evil towards survival. It would be done when she was restored to her time. She could go home and from then on, since her present-day father hated her, delegates would meet him rom now on instead. Perhaps it was fate, she pondered sadly. They had managed to mangle their relationship so swiftly with this timeline; perhaps they were never meant to get along. But at the very least, true to form, they could cooperate. Like she had thought before this debacle had begun; they're nothing if not efficient.

And maybe that was all they could be.


	9. Chapter 9

Woo! Next chapter! To the reviewer, Liv, thank you for your review! The UK bros names; I seriously thought those were decided headcannon names by the fandom, but maybe I just have been surfing Pinterest too much...My version of the characters are indeed inspired by Apple's work; I just love her series! But I think my interpretations are a little different, seeing as my America is female, there is less psychological analysis, and so far much less wonderfully heart-wrenching drama, etc. I also my chapters are waay shorter! So my writing and analysis are no where near as in-depth as hers. Even so, I thank you for the compliment!

As for Angel Arthur, I honestly hadn't planned on it. When I read your review I've been trying to consider if I _could_ implement it somehow; I just don't know quite _how_ -Angel Arthur seems like it'd clash so much with Pirate Arthur...But I will definitely keep it in mind!

We also got to meet Wales, who in my interpretation, especially for this story, seems to have quite a bit of knowledge of what is going down! So, now that they're on land, I feel like this will move much more quickly! ...Hopefully! I still have a bunch of other projects to tackle! (Client meetings, architect meetings, planning, military work, I'm considering starting a blog to catalog some of my chaos...I need to slow down...)

Anyways, usual disclaimers, historical inaccuracies...probably, and I don't own any of characters, franchises, etc.

Enjoy!

Ch. 9

The port was crowded and full of smells she'd rather not remember. It was rather mind boggling how people survived at all around such conditions. After all, there was much prevention in hygiene, Anne thought as she passed a man throwing waste into the water carelessly and shuddered. It wasn't entirely the people's fault, she knew. Back then, health professionals couldn't decide if bathing was good for you, and for many, a simple rub down with a soaked linen everyday was considered enough. Sewage was even worse, though. And the scent of such waste, or spoiled food, so often simply tossed into alleyways or left in the open…it was a smell the memory never forgets. Try as some might to cover it with perfumes and herbs, it just added to the mingling smells that could make anyone faint. There were so many things wrong with hygiene back then…And couple that with population density…Anne was glad she hadn't eaten much. It was difficult not to gag.

There so many people bustling in all directions, destinations in mind, amidst the shouts that echoed from all directions, but one thing remained exactly as she remembered it to be; the pale, overcast sky that the island nation was famed for. Anne kept her pace a step behind her father, trying to take in as much as she can, but not enough to lose him. He'd occasionally glanced behind him to ensure she was still there. But after a swift pace, dodging people, carts, and carriages they'd entered a small tavern. And she could only be a little thankful that the smell of burning tobacco drowned out the scent of…population; even if the smell of tobacco always made her eyes burn.

Her father led her to a table in the far back corner, somewhat private, pulling out a chair for her, and signaling for the waitress to bring food, which the rather young girl did, with ale and plates of bread, fruit, and cheese. Slightly fancy for a tavern, for a time when fruits could be very expensive. And despite her stomach churning from the scents, the plate did look appetizing and taking her cue from Arthur who had set upon his ale first, Anne nibbled quietly on the grapes. A few moments passed when she realized he was watching her.

"Feeling better?" At her questioning glance, he nodded towards her plate which Anne had then realized she'd eaten much faster than she realized.

"I—yes, thank you." She was sure her cheeks were pink.

"Help yourself." He pushed his plate towards her and she, against her better judgement because she could never tell what he was thinking, set herself to devour his plate as well. She was just so suddenly famished, and maybe it had to do with no longer sitting within a swaying ship, but her stomach was demanding. "Rhys should be here soon." Arthur spoke again.

Anne nodded absently, reaching for her ale. It tasted awful. She couldn't place it, but it tasted like it had maybe fermented incorrectly and they'd added some manner of spirit to it because it was most definitely strong. She coughed harshly into her linen napkin after heavily placing her cup onto the table. _God, did all alcohol back then suck?_ Anne thought. _How unfortunate because the historical journals always seemed to praise ales and beers of the past._ The young waitress from earlier had brought her a glass of what looked like milk. Anne heard sniggers in the distance and ducked her head after looking around. They must've thought her some kind of innocent or something. In the same moment, she couldn't really blame them. She had such a young face and she and wearing a lovely, expensive-looking dress that just screamed _young, sheltered, maiden._ She didn't look like she belonged in a tavern. It didn't stop her from cursing at them for laughing at her. She turned to Arthur who looked like he was trying to force a neutral expression as much as possible.

"Laughing at me too?" Anne pouted.

"Certainly not." He cleared his throat, but smiled nonetheless when she sniffed and glanced away, cheeks turning darker. But she caught movement drawing closer and focused her gaze. Rhys Kirkland strode smartly towards them, hesitating only slightly when he made eye contact with her, and stood by their table, shooting a questioning expression towards his younger brother.

"Brother, good to see you again." Arthur glanced towards her, "Anne, if I may for propriety's sake, introduce my elder brother, Rhys Kirkland." And true to form, her uncle followed the rules of etiquette, giving a slight bow to take her hand and give the lightest of pecks.

"A pleasure, Miss…?"

"My name is Anne. I'm..uh…" she glanced at her father who seemed to be awaiting dramatic effect.

"Indeed." Arthur began smugly, "She is Anne Kirkland; your niece." Her uncle started and scrutinized the girl before him. _Way to drop a bomb, Dad._ Anne wanted to face-palm, but sat straighter for her uncle, whose piercing eyes could always make her nervous. She couldn't stop the fidget in her hands. After a beat, her uncle sat in the only other chair and stared hard at her father.

"Explain," was all he said.

"I'm afraid your dear niece is the victim of a magical accident," Arthur took another sip of his ale and suddenly all traces of his earlier amusement was gone, "she has been thrust back in time. I was fortunate enough to find her. Now I must make preparations to send her home." Arthur suddenly switched to another language causing Anne to blink as her uncle responded in the same language without missing a beat. Arthur gave small glances her way to see if she understood what was being said, but realized she was lost to it. That seemed to have a mixed reaction from him as far as Anne could tell. She sighed quietly and picked at the small leftover bread from the plate her father shared with her.

For his part, Arthur was a little grateful that he could speak privately with his elder brother because Rhys certainly had many questions. Most of it was about Anne being his daughter.

 _"_ _Albion, are you certain she is of our family and not some changeling that just looks like her?"_

 _"_ _Yes, I checked several mediums. I've confirmed it all. She is also knowledgeable of us. She is my daughter…from the future."_

 _"_ _Through time magic…it is a miracle she is in one piece. How could she cast such a spell?"_

 _"_ _She claims it was an accident, not of her doing; rather it was…a matter of being in the wrong place, at the wrong time."_

 _"_ _Interesting…and dangerous."_ Rhys glanced at Anne who was watching the other patrons curiously.

 _"_ _Why would you assume she was a changeling? The magic around her has dissipated. And you should, at the very least, sense some manner of connection with her. But you're suggesting she is fae."_ Rhys gave Arthur a strange look.

 _"_ _You mean you have no recollection…?"_

 _"_ _Well, I had fae on my ship, but they were all bound to me. No doubt that interfered with my ability to sense her by myself, what with my magic being pulled in different directions. But now, especially on my lands, and the fae dispersed, I can sense her fully now. Can you not?"_

 _"_ _My magic is regrettably low, brother. I'm afraid right now, I cannot sense much from her other than she is displaced. But that wasn't exactly what I was talking about—"_

 _"_ _What on earth have you been casting to deplete your magic? I won't be able to send her back if you are not at full strength."_

 _"_ _With the two of us, no, but with a full circle we will have the strength. As well as better chances at not tearing her apart. I can navigate well enough, but you know that both Alba and Eire, especially together, can keep her well protected from chaotic forces."_

 _"_ _Do you mean to suggest that I cannot keep her safe?"_ Arthur bristled and Rhys held up a placating hand.

 _"_ _I meant nothing of the sort. Though, you must admit that sharing your magic with the fae on your ship has weakened your reserves as well. However, I was referring to the casting nature of the spell. You will need to be the anchor for her. Your future self should be working to cast to bring her home. You and your future self are what will tether her so she is not lost to time."_ Arthur grudgingly nodded, concerned, _"It will be a considerable strain that requires your focus and will."_

 _"_ _I am glad it you who has met me here. Your knowledge is invaluable. But do you really think those two idiots will lend aid?"_ Rhys pursed his lips at the insult to his other two siblings.

 _"_ _For the sake of family they will,"_ the Welshman nodded resolutely, _"If not for us, they will for her sake."_ Arthur was not as confident as his eldest brother in his other two siblings. They would certainly be interested in her, but would that concern move them to work alongside him? His brothers had strong magic, valuable towards this cause, but they were brutish or devious at times especially towards him. They were currently at odds with each other. He could only hope they would be mature enough to set aside difference, even if only temporarily, to aid their niece.

Anne had tuned out the conversation between the two men, noting that it was obviously a private matter, and focused on her surroundings. She supposed she could've tried to eavesdrop, but she knew so little of the Welsh language that it'd have been all for naught. The tavern was busy and full of a wide variety of patrons, with varying degrees of inebriation. She supposed it was why this place was chosen as a meeting point. It was still respectable enough to be seen at, for a tavern, but it also allowed for hushed conversation without it being conspicuous or strange. The noise would make eavesdropping very difficult to do anyhow, what with all the chatter or the random, short jingles some patrons would occasionally sing out before becoming distracted by other things. Most seemed to be of the working class of various occupations; sailors, merchants, and other sorts with hardy, well-worn clothing and dirt on their hands. You could tell they lived trying lives.

But still, they seemed mostly content to sit and mingle and laugh loudly. It was a scene she was familiar with; even in her present time. Many of the restaurants and bars in her country were busy, loud places with patrons enjoying themselves or celebrating occasions. It was practically a staple of American culture; loudness. They were a social people, in a strange way. Open whilst still maintaining their privacy. Contradictory in a way, like so many of American customs, it was no wonder travelers had a hard time navigating it. Still, she wouldn't trade it for anything and thus found a bit of comfort in the noise. Arthur brought her attention back with a light tap on her arm.

"We will be heading to local lodging and begin preparations. I have to secure my ship for my absence, so you will be traveling with your uncle. I will meet you later this evening, hopefully with some papers to ensure we encounter no trouble further into the country. You will also need clothing more suited to traveling. Your uncle can assist you."

"I don't have money, father; nor anything really suitable for trade."

"Needn't worry. We have more than enough to purchase what you require. Now then, as we are finished here, I will be on my way and see you tonight." And without any real ceremony, her father up and left her alone. Alone with her uncle who knows practically nothing about her and was currently watching her closely.

"I—thank you…Uncle…for helping me." Rhys only nodded.

"Your father mentioned you were ill mannered, but you seem cultivated enough." Ah, so, her father was gossiping behind her back. What an ass.

"I am perfectly respectful to those who show the same courtesy in return. I assure you, whatever he claims I did towards him, he had coming." Anne said primly, but almost wilted at the sharp smile that appeared on her uncle's face. Almost. Her uncle could be intimidating, but he was not a violent person. At least, not that she remembered. But then, her father was nothing like she remembered. If Anne was nervous around her rather genteel uncle before, now it was starting to be a little terrifying. What if he was also vastly different?

"Shall we then, niece?" Her uncle stood, holding a hand to her. Anne had been feeling like she was at a distinct disadvantage since she'd fallen into the Atlantic. And truly, this proved it. She realized that she did not truly know her family as well as she'd thought. But it sparked curiosity as well. Her father and her uncles carried themselves to a particular standard, to certain etiquettes and mannerisms, keeping their personal stories vague or veiled in some manner. What had they been hiding about themselves?

Who were they really?

She wanted to get home, to her time, but she decided that she also wanted to know. To know more, to know everything about her strange family. And she felt like it was long overdue. So, with a small and rather cheeky smile, she accepted her uncle's hand to continue her journey.

And in the present, while his siblings piled, quibbling, into the car to continue the long drive, the Welsh personification stifled a small laugh.


	10. Chapter 10

This took a while to write! Usually, I plan a chapter and the write it all at once, but this happened on-and-off for weeks? (days? how much time has passed?)

Anyways, I wanted a conversation with Rhys and Anne and I think it turned out well! I'm not sure who we will see first, Reilly or Alistair, but hopefully that'll be soon. Google searched the Welsh endearment, so if it is wrong or if I used it wrong, I'm sorry. In reference to the histories; some of it may be off in terms of fashion -I tried, guys, but it is complicated stuff. As for the "kingdoms" references, as you know, the UK is, obviously, comprised of kingdoms. But if you look at the entirety of it's history (and it is a lot! Very fascinating stuff! I highly recommend reading books or taking classes on it!), it is riddled with wars, being conquered, tribal wars, civil wars, opposing noble houses/monarchies. And while there are peaceful times as well, to me, a great deal of its history has been in hardship. And it was in more modern ages (time-comparatively speaking) that the UK really rose above all that, became so powerful, and still remains strong today. That's pretty impressive! But it wasn't easy.

So to incorporate that for the UK bros personalities, it has come about after enduring many centuries upon centuries of survival against the world and, at times, against each other. By the time Anne and the other children get there, things are calming (sort of) as times get into the later modern times (except the Great wars of course) and the UK bros have worked to change with them. Like with Arthur cultivating his more gentlemanly persona. He is still quick-tempered and kind of conniving, but again, he tries!

Anyways, enjoy!

Ch. 10:

Anne hated corsets. Hated them. But at least this one was better fitting. Her uncle had arranged for clothing to be bought. And by that, it meant a gaggle of ladies and seamstresses fitting her with whatever she needed for a trip. A travel coat to fit over her walking dress, a hat to go over her up-done hair which was now a pouf of delicately decorated pins, walking shoes _and_ evening shoes, _and_ a riding jacket. She tried to insist that she did not need all these things, after all, her stay was only temporary. Both her uncle and ladies scoffed. Why the very idea of a young, respectable lady to only have one pair of undergarments, dresses, and clothing improper to the many occasions she may or may not encounter! Anne sighed heavily. It would all go to waste in the end. She couldn't, or rather wouldn't, wear these things in the future. Not unless she went to a costume party or something; the tightness of the corset and the million layers wouldn't be worth the pain.

And yet her uncle seemed very assured with himself. Nodding with the elder matron of the shop, occasionally commenting on this color or that color, and how it went with her complexion. He dutifully requested a pair of gloves and 'might the shop have silk stockings or will they need to visit another shop?' And the young working girls scrambled to please whatever his requests were; including a stiff drink while he sat and Anne was pinned and tightened into form. Anne remembered that dresses typically had to be special ordered from a seamstress, but sometimes, especially with widely popular or busy shops, mostly made dresses were available; needing only a few alterations here and there to fit the customer on the move. It could be terribly exhausting at times. Anne preferred the future, where clothing was much simpler and shopping could be done quickly and from the comfort of her own home. _The invention of the internet and online shopping was a godsend_. Standing, sometimes for hours, with a tailor was never fun.

It was even more frustrating back then, her country being across the Atlantic, in trying to stay with the fashions; to order a dress only for its "fashionable-ness" to expire mere weeks later. She finally gave up, taking a more pragmatic and cavalier approach. She was often laughed at for her practical choices, but she didn't mind. The clothing lasted, it was comfortable, and she was saving money. So what if blue was last season; it was her best color. She was lucky her father never saw her on the frontier in the 1800s. He might've fainted seeing her wearing men's clothing. She briefly wondered if he had noticed she was wearing the men's uniform during their battle in the revolution. It was the first and only time they'd literally faced one another. And that had ended disastrously, neither firing a shot at the other, and soon after the war ended anyhow.

Nevertheless they left the shop after paying what sounded like a large amount of money, and the shop's promise to have the completed garments delivered to their lodgings by the evening. Anne never imagined her uncle to be the charmer type, but he smiled kindly to the elder matron who preened and quietly laughed behind her hand, assuring that the purchased wardrobe would be no trouble at all! It was a bit surreal to watch the typically stoic man casually and lightly flirt with the woman; not obscenely, always proper, but in his case, never actually promising or really saying anything substantial. And the woman just…ate it all up with a wide smile and demure flutter. Flattery seemed more Uncle Reilly's thing. He could charm anyone.

Anne supposed that it didn't matter either way; her uncle got exactly what he wanted and left the shop in triumph. She simply followed behind after a polite 'thank you' for all their hard work and received a coldly pleasant farewell….alright. Customer service was also very different back then.

Their lodging was also a very nice, overly fancy place. They were greeted as if they were honored guests and her uncle inquired about an extra room for her; she, his young niece, and had a room already been prepared for his brother? She spent the time observing her uncle; noting his stance and facial expressions. One might never know that he was the type to hole-up in his home and not leave for days. He stood almost stiff, however, and that is where she believed that this charming side was simply an act. That the Welshman was still somewhat the same; an introvert. This day must've been exhausting for him. Maybe she could do something for him in thanks? She'd left the handkerchief she'd embroidered for her Scottish uncle within the stolen trunk on the ship, feeling a little unconfident at presenting the rather…shoddy work. And she hadn't brought any of the spares with her to try another. So what could she do? What was she good at?

Anne was led by a young maid to what would be her room which by itself was modestly sized, but it connected directly to a sitting room with a large fireplace. And across it, behind another door, was her uncle's room. So they were to share common spaces? That was fancy. It even had a small, private dining table. The very quiet girl informed her before departing that a bath would be drawn up for her in her room and be ready after dinner was completed; assured that her wardrobe delivery would be taken care of, miss, needn't worry. Did she look worried? Anne couldn't tell for herself anymore. There was so much to take in and her mind had been more preoccupied with trying to remember stories from her family of this time, but she came up short.

Most of their tales were complaints about each other; politics and historical facts. They rarely spoke of hobbies or personal events. It was like their time before her arrival in the world was muted. Things happened, that was certain, but it was as if they were merely the wallpaper within the room. That they were scarcely involved somehow, or took no part in their nation's great events.

Anne knew that had to be a lie. It had to be. With their personalities, and seeing her father now, they couldn't have not been involved. And of course, thinking of her father and his stories, privateer indeed! He was a bloody pirate! Sanctioned by the crown or not, piracy was piracy.

Anne startled when another staff member entered the room with a tray of tea and small biscuits. Goodness, she may have been starving for a while but at this rate she'll start to gain back more than just the weight she'd lost and she found herself shuddering at the thought of the corset again. Her uncle, having completed whatever business he needed at the front desk, arrived after the tea tray and sat heavily in the chair across from her, letting out a long sigh. Anne quietly nibbled her biscuit.

"As I am quite sure you know; we will need to perform the ritual very soon."

"Yes, sir. Dangerous time magic and all that. I cannot stay out of my timeline for long." Her uncle smiled; _smiled_.

"Indeed. Though we'd love it if you could stay a while."

"You may change your mind about that."

"Why do you say that?"

"It's what usually happens." Rhys regarded her seriously a moment before pouring the tea before speaking again.

"What has your father done now?"

"Why do you think he's done something?"

"It is what usually happens." he gave her a secretive smirk. Her uncle was weird.

"I'm sure he believes he was perfectly justified, but I am not bothered by that anymore." She thanked him when he passed her a cup. The moment she ate that biscuit her stomach rumbled. It didn't seem like it, but dress shopping had taken hours. And here she thought she was going to get fat!

"What troubles you then? Other than the obvious, of course." And wasn't that the question of the year? Anne wasn't entirely sure where to start; if she should even say anything. Would it reveal too much? Would he be offended? "I know more than many realize, my dear. So you may speak freely with me, at least." That…that was…really strange. Anne swore her uncle seemed to know something she didn't. Well, she was sure he knew many things she didn't. _He_ was ancient; wise. Had walked the earth for thousands of years. So were her uncles. So was her father. They were all so…old. And not in a this-isn't-Victorian-times-anymore-Dad way. It was so much more…

Unfathomable.

How does one live _that_ long and not, Anne wasn't sure, just become overloaded? How does one keep so many memories? Not be in a constant state of heaviness? How does one just keep going with the times; especially in her time where things change so quickly now? But she was letting herself become distracted and her uncle was patiently awaiting her response.

"I don't quite know how to say this without it sounding either crass or just…ignorant. But I guess…I was bothered by the fact that I don't know everyone as well as I thought I did."

"How do you mean?"

"Since I have been here I have noticed…shall we say, attributes, of my father's that are different. Not just of what I remember, but of what I was told of before I was born. It is…little things so far, that don't quite add up to the description. And I thought at first, that perhaps I had been remembering incorrectly or perhaps had not heard stories of this time, but…I have and the stories…they paint a different picture. Which, considering some of the details and these were stories told me as a child, I can see where the need for delicacy was necessary. But it also brought to light that many of the stories were also quite vague; to the point that I know very little of…well… _you_ , my uncles, my father. Only what I have seen and been told."

"And you wish to know these pasts?"

"Not that I am entitled…I just…as a child I was always curious about any of the times before me; especially if they were the adventures of my father and my uncles." Anne smiled a bit, "But thinking on it, I rather feel like I am at a disadvantage when it comes to navigating myself here and conducting myself around you or my father. And when I say bothered, I do not mean that I am angry, no, but I am very much curious again." Her uncle nodded, listening intently, and smiling slightly when she did. It was kind of like talking to a therapist really, but that was a good thing. If Anne ever felt lost on something, particularly when it came to how she felt on a matter, Uncle Rhys was the person to go to. He could help her sort herself out with sagely anecdotes and experienced understanding.

"I'm sure you will get plenty of stories throughout your travels. I certainly do not mind telling them, nor will your uncles, though I do caution your ears. And they will be curious about you as well. You will also have to be vague."

"Not entirely by choice. Shame though; I have some good stories." She chuckled.

"I'm sure. The point however, is that while we may have changed some details here and there, we are, at our core, the same people. Believe me, habits are hard to change, even over centuries. And we are your family, we are each other's family, and we take care of our own." The sentiment was warming, but Anne still felt the need to talk more. After all, if a "nicer" version of her father hated her, how long until the rougher version does as well.

"But I don't know my father _like this_." She looked at her hands, curled around the cooling teacup, "It's…it's in his eyes. His eyes are different. They're…"

"Yes?"

"They're cold…almost. I know that's not entirely fair; talking about how he sees me, because he just found out about me, but…it's just…"

"His manner. His demeanor."

"Yes, exactly."

"It is still your father, _fy nghariad bach_. I won't presume to know the future in which your father treats you, but times have us act in different ways. In your time, your behavior has changed dependent upon the times and the situations you are in. They create some of these habits I spoke of. And they are hard to break especially in difficult times when we do things to protect ourselves." This time, it was her uncle who looked away, staring into the fireplace, "And time, for our kingdoms, have not always been kind. You will come to realize this throughout your travels; when you see your father in different places. But, your father, deep down, is the same person. There just may be certain traits or habits you've not seen before. You may see it with all of us."

"I'm sorry if I was offensive."

"You were not. We all want to be seen at our best, always. 'Tis a hard day for a father when the glamour he has cast o'er his child is broken. We cast it so to keep our children from our mistakes; to teach them better. They are our legacy, after all. It is rare enough for our kind, but should you ever sire a child or at least be idolized by one, you may find a better understanding." Anne nodded, her thoughts momentarily flashing a memory of a small Molossia. She supposed she could understand that a little, but Molossia seemed to grow overnight and doing well enough on his own, there wasn't much…time to _cast_ anything. He had his own mind already. Though in that short time he seemed to take traits from both her and Texas. And he _idolized_ Texas, she thought, what with the way he tried to emulate him to appear "tougher". She wanted to sigh at that. Or laugh. It was cute; like a little duckling or something. And around her, he was so sweet.

Ah, but her thoughts were running away again. Strange, her mind never seem to stray so easily before. It was like her memories were just falling out of their box. Anne took a long sip from her cooled tea, not noticing the focused stare from her uncle, but when she looked again his gaze was softer.

"I do hope my brother has not completely driven you away." He gave a small smile.

"Of course not. I was just…caught off-guard, I suppose. I was so used to him one way."

"I do wonder of what you will think of your other uncles then. Have I changed much?"

"No, sir. At least, not that I have noticed. I can still speak to you when I am unsure of what I am feeling and in need of counsel. This has been a relief."

"Of course. Always. And I will ask that you have patience with your father. His…habits are deep and set strongly within himself. He has always been quick to anger and his words, without much care, but he does try. He lacks patience. Much like Alistair." Rhys sighed, looking a bit put upon.

"I know…I can be like that sometimes. I try not to be. Sometimes I just react, but lately, I've just been too tired." Her uncle was about to respond when Arthur abruptly entered, tossing his coat over a chair and making point to removing other trinkets.

"I trust the afternoon went well?" he finally said. He gave Rhys a pointed look, but Welshman simply raised a disapproving brow; fully aware that Arthur had been eavesdropping for some time.

"Very well. Dinner should be served any moment. And you? Ready to depart in the morning?"

"Indeed." He gathered his things, as if removing them was merely for show. "It appears my room is across the hall. I shall return for dinner then." And as quickly as he came, he left. Anne heard her Welsh uncle muttering to himself, but didn't comment.

She simply decided to wait for dinner and nibble on another biscuit. The tea had gone cold anyway.


	11. Chapter 11

Hey guys, sorry! I had to be in the hospital for a short bit and recover. I'm okay. But I took a break from writing for a while so I could catch up on everything else. The good news is I'm doing fine. Job is going well, and I am back to my hobbies. My laptop died (it was only, like, 7 years old, WTF?!) so I had to save for a new one (and it is awesome!)

The struggle I ran into was when I got to this story I had trouble finding a direction, but I knew I needed to at least finish this chapter. So, thank you so much for your reviews! It makes me very happy to know that people enjoy my work. I am still trying to figure the direction for the next chapter, but I am indeed still working this story! There is some small tidbits of historical daily life, but I try to keep it vague for the sake of timeline; like I dont want to give any specific years, just an idea of what life looked like back then-ish. Though some specifics were mentioned. When I speak about the bitterness between Scotland and England, look up their histories with each other, particularly some major battles and political movements from 1300 to about...uh...1750s-ish. Like Braveheart to Outlander Season 3(?).

Oh! And if you haven't seen Outlaw King on Netflix, watch it!

Cheers!

Ch. 11

Anne woke to an early morning knock at the door of her bedroom and was loath to answer it, but the moment she remembered that this was not her bed, or her time, she sat up straight away and tucked into the robe she was provided. The young maid from earlier tip-toed in quietly and moved to help her ready for the day, quietly speaking that breakfast would be up shortly and would be taken in the common room just as dinner had before. She would pack her things and have them delivered to the carriage for her journey. It was a lot of information that girl was whispering out and Anne tried to keep up on the some ought news of the weather and talk about dangers on the road.

And she tried not to think of the rather tense dinner the night before. Her father had mentioned riders being sent to her other uncles, with the hope that they will meet them on the road. Uncle Rhys had been optimistic that they'd find their way to them quickly, though her father only sneered into his wine.

 _Goodness!_ Anne wanted to snort to herself as the girl helped her navigate her bodice. Was it any wonder they didn't get along with an attitude like that! She and Mattie were certainly never like that, she thought. Even when he had been angry with her over something, her northern brother was always polite and kind to her. As far she knew anyway, he would never sneer and be insulting if she wasn't there. Or at least everything she knew about him suggested he would never do that. Mattie was a kind and gentle soul, mostly. Most of the time…Mostly. Yea, that's her story and she is sticking to it. At the very least, if he was going to tell her off, he said it to her face. Anne shakes her head to dispel images of previous hockey matches and other war time memories.

Being on the road was also a stifling affair, after all, one could only move so much in a carriage. On the ship, she could walk about…when she wasn't in confinement for sickness…or behavior. But at least the scenery changed more than the open seas. Rolling hills, meadows, farms, and little hamlets came into focus and faded into mists. And they rarely stopped, save for short instances to relieve themselves and rest the horses, or switch carriages. But the carriage was stocked with crackers and light wine and a blanket for Anne to keep warm because, you know, air conditioning was a thing of the future and despite the layers women were forced to endure, it was still possible to freeze in humid, frigid air. And Anne never really did well in cold weather…well, she never did well in hot weather either. France used to joke she was as delicate as a flower, not because of some lacking strength, no. But because, like a flower, which would break in frost or wilt in heat, she would find her energy and motivation wane in the extreme sides of nature. She would become melancholic under too much rain, but tire from too much sun. (" _Tu es une créature printanière."_ He would say to her when she'd fallen ill _again_ during the war and spent most of her recovery apologizing.)

It was terribly frustrating. Perhaps most especially because her lands experienced many of the different aspects of nature; deserts, bitter winters, spectacular storms, and practically everything in between. And it made her prone to illness. She hated it; made her feel weak.

Still, the travel was slow and the nights they stopped were at small lodges and local inns. Not so bad, but tiring. Her father never spoke much throughout with her, save for some commentary here and there on their location and its current history. What surprised her was how talkative her Uncle was. He seemed to take heart to the confession of her curiosity and so filled the silences with short stories about himself and his brothers. Her father admonished him for it, but Rhys shrugged him off. Perk of being the eldest, he smiled, was that the eldest rarely had to obey anyone, to which her father scoffed.

Still, Anne found herself hanging on every story; digesting certain details and dissecting others. And trying to imagine the impressive figures of her rather arcane family members in the myriad of settings and, at times, _absurd_ plots. She was laughing most of the time. Truly, some of her kin (**cough** Uncle Reilly **cough**) found themselves in the most _bizarre_ predicaments.

And it gave her the definite sense that her own particular brand of mischief and adventure wasn't so far from the family tree as she once thought. Why, at this point, they shouldn't have been surprised that she had always been…free-spirited. Perhaps it was the timing of it; of the centuries where behavior was strictly regimented to the point of hysteria. Or because she was born female and if history has proven anything it was that women often got the short end of the stick. Never allowed to be adventurous or wild; she had to be poised and demure at all times.

 _Fuck that_! Anne had always been herself, in the best and worst times, and not always to her favor. But she preferred being honest with herself, in and out of public eye, at least as much as possible over pretending to be something she wasn't. Yet another one for her apparent list of flaws.

Either way, she was learning so much! Uncle Rhys had been patient with her questions, when he mentioned something, such as a point in history she wasn't entirely familiar with. Her father, however, seemed determined at times, to gloss over certain points; wars, certain monarchs, and the state the kingdoms were in. As if to dismiss that there were times he wasn't so proud of. Hardly anything to be ashamed of, really; _she_ certainly had points in her short time she'd rather not have happened. And the world certainly wouldn't let her forget it; the bastards. Like their countries have never made a mistake.

Her Uncle had been about to tell her about driving the Vikings out when Arthur demanded they stop at a small town. He hopped out of the carriage quickly and Uncle Rhys quickly followed as if to catch him, but her father's stride didn't let up even as he entered the tavern. Her uncle scoffed before turning to give his hand for Anne to step down, which she begrudgingly admitted to herself was necessary to navigate around the dress she was wearing and not face-plant into the dirt. _Damn fashion!_ She was escorted in and was seated next to her father who already had some ale before him. She decided to try and give the proverbial olive branch by apologizing. Maybe that'd put out some of the fire under his butt that seemed to seethe since the journey's beginning.

"I know enough about history to know that Vikings here was never pleasant. I'm sorry if that was upsetting, we can talk about something else." She tried as he glared sharply at her.

"Have you ever encountered Vikings?"

"As you know Vikings aren't really about anymore; though there have been a few revival attempts since then…"

"I meant the personifications; the Nordics."

"Yes. We get along well."

"Even that Danish moron…" Anne cringed at the tone. Relations between the UK and others was certainly _better_ in her time than it seemed now…but what of her father's personal opinions. The nations, as she could remember, worked closely over the past several centuries, what with their monarchies and the like, treaties and wars, and so forth. But she guessed professional relations was as far as her father was willing to go for some. He certainly had no problem expressing his opinion of Francis, but the nations _did_ get on well…mostly. Her father had certainly mellowed over the years, it seemed, since her entry into the world.

Even so, her relations with Denmark, especially since her independence, had always been amicable and strong; one of her longest running alliances. And Mathias was one of her best friends; part of the "Awesome Trio". He was knowledgeable, supportive, and always down for an adventure. Mathias was friendly, charming, and always made her laugh too. He'd been a great comfort in the beginnings of her nationhood, when she felt alone; patiently working with her and guiding her through trade. When she and the entirety of the British Empire weren't exactly on speaking terms, it was Mathias that told her to be patient and understanding; that her relations with her family would improve with time and to not lose faith.

"Mathias has been a valuable friend to me…" she finally said. The skin around her father's eyes seemed to tighten a bit before turning away to gaze about the tavern. By then her uncle returned with ale which Anne tried her best to drink without gagging from the burn.

"Vikings might not have been the best way to start that story…"

"You speak so freely suddenly, even though that history injured you as well…" Arthur interrupted.

"It is in the past, is it not? What harm is there to speak of it now?" her father only grunted in response to which Rhys gave an exasperated sigh.

"When do you think Uncle Reilly and Uncle Alistair will find us?" Anne finally piped in which seemed to be a welcome change of subject, if only a little.

"Ah, I _do_ have some news. Turns out they'd ben already visiting one another when the message arrived. They had some preparations to make, but sent a runner with messages. We should encounter them on the road soon, if not the next large town."

"That's good news, isn't it?" Anne turned a smile to her father, "I'll be out of your hair soon enough." Anne continued her conversation with her uncle, not noticing the frown on her father's face. Her Uncle insisted on an early supper and exploration of the small town before retiring at the inn for the night.

Exploring the small town had been interesting. There were so many people walking about the mostly dirt paths and so many little shops. It reminded Anne of walking about her towns when they finally began to really grow beyond a small collection of buildings and scattered farms. There were bakeries, tailors, various smiths, and several taverns that tended to double as Inns. It was wonderfully nostalgic.

It was here that her father seemed to finally relax, taking her arm with ease and pointing out various things or buildings; this church or that courthouse. He explained how many small places like this tended to spring up throughout his lands, over the many, many years and how so few really stick around. But some, he mused, seem to last forever. Always changing or growing large enough to become bustling cities. Anne could get into that conversation for sure. She ended up explaining a bit about New York, trying not give any major history away, which wasn't easy. New York when it began, when it was known as New Amsterdam, had been a simple fort of fur trade that struggled to truly gain any real foothold. It didn't flourish until the 1700s when it had become a rather important port for the empire. And from it became her largest, most populated, and most diverse city.

But she spoke mostly of its place; for business and entrepreneurship, for culture and arts. She tried please him by stating, without giving names and such which is such a pain, that one of the oldest established universities of her nation was there and was named in honor of one of his monarchs. It had the desired effect and started him on a long conversation on the importance of education. Which, she smiled to herself, never changed. And it was certainly at least one thing they agreed on; a strong, well-rounded education and literacy. It was an uphill battle, as always.

But by the end of the evening, when they bid each other good night and went their separate ways, her father seemed in a much lighter mood. Anne would count it as a win.

Meanwhile in the present…

Alistair was tired. He didn't sleep well and couldn't get rid of the budding migraine that rattled his brain. His past self was meeting her soon, he knew it. Eire too; with all his moaning about visions. They would only get worse from here and he could only scowl as he watched his youngest brother gaze out the window with some kind of goofy grin on his stupid face. The Scotsman swore he could see remnants of his past brother every time a new memory surfaced; hints of the empire days. And it made him feel a wee bit chilled…deep inside. And bitter. They were not known for their kindness towards one another. Maybe not outright attack on sight, but they were more antagonistic then. Well, more so than usual. Rhys would be there to mitigate, he supposed, but even that could only do so much when they were out for a fight. They knew exactly how to goad each other; knew what to say to bring about fists. Not that he ever minded it; sometimes outright fighting could ease tensions better, speak better, then words ever could. But no; they were 'civilized' now. Alistair wanted to snort aloud, but that would draw attention he didn't want right now. Civilized, indeed. Still, he accepted the pain killers his elder brother passed with as much graciousness as his tired self could muster.

Honestly, he'd be happier about meeting the lass soon…

They'd always got one well; she'd been this plucky little thing and definitely made of strong stock. And she fought; fought hard and ruthlessly for what she believed in. He could respect that. Even if she could be a bit of a nut…Heh, oh to be young, as they say. He enjoyed his times with her and knew his past self, bitter or otherwise, would get a kick out her antics; even if it meant dealing with Arthur.

And he would be happier, but his instincts kept niggling his gut. Something was worrying him, but no epiphany came. It made the atmosphere seem stifling; heavy. And he hated that feeling because often times it meant that whatever terrible thing was coming one would be too late to stop it from happening. It was times you had no choice but to let the cards fall where they may, but this…this was his niece. She was at the center of this whole debacle. And the last thing any of them wanted was to lose another family member. He considered bringing it up…but…his idiot brother with his idiotic happy smile…damn it all. So he shut his eyes from the moving scenery and hoped the painkillers kicked in soon.

Thanks for your patience, guys! Happy Autumn!


	12. Chapter 12

Woohoo! I churned this one out quickly didn't I? I wrote this while at work when I should have been, you know, _working_. But with the holidays coming up this month is going to be pretty slow anyway.

I hope everyone is doing well and liking the story so far. There are usual disclaimers regarding history, accents, etc. But we are getting close to the Part 2 of this story so, thanks for keeping with me and this story! Enjoy!

Ch. 12-

Meeting her uncles was almost exactly as she'd expected it to be. The found them in a tavern, making noise, and half-heartedly listening to both her father's and Uncle Rhys' lecture about propriety and behavior and how they were supposed to meet them elsewhere hours ago! Uncle Reilly shrugged, but her Uncle Alistair snidely commented that it didn't matter; they found one another, hadn't they? But when she finally drew closer, make her presence known, the arguing stopped. Her Scottish uncle walked a full circle around her in inspection while her father stood stiff, daring his elder brother to say anything insulting, but he only smirked and congratulated her at not inheriting her father's alleged poor looks. He earned a giggle from her and a squawk from her father. He had a firm hand upon her shoulder and welcomed her; to pay attention to him and he'd show her the ropes; ignore anything his brothers said, he'd teach her to be strong. All the brothers were squabbling at the point in varying degrees of indignant, until Reilly broke away to give her a rather enthusiastic hug despite her father's gripe that such displays were inappropriate.

It was, strangely, almost exactly how she expected the meeting to go. She'd spent so much time with her uncles who never faulted her for her revolution. Sure, they had their gripes about this or that battle, but they didn't hold a grudge. They welcomed her as always when she visited, kept her visits quiet from her father, and could party as well as the best of them; never kept her from enjoying the festivities as well. And for that, they'd got on famously, enacted trade, had a wealth of immigration, though that was bumpy at times, and had no trouble treating her as an equal, in and out of war. Anne supposed she knew their personalities very well, even if she didn't know their entire pasts. And much later, further down the road and hangovers slept off, when Rhys continued with his stories of their pasts, they were happy to join in, adding little details and commentary which made the storytelling that much more entertaining. For once, they didn't shy away from their crazy adventure; they'd pressed her for her own, which she tried to supply without giving anything away.

She still felt like she did...somehow. That she was going to mess everything up, but it was hard to hold back. They'd been curious and interested, perhaps because they weren't meeting her when she was a toddler wandering the wilds. Compared to her father, they'd been amicable, welcoming...did feelings from the future travel back with her. Was that possible? She'd left the future after a fight with him. Did he, even unknowingly, somehow feel that anger, the hate, in this time as well?

Or was it simply the nature of their relation to one another? Were they destined to be ambivalent to one another? The thought had soured some of the stories' happier tunes, her smile sometimes turned brittle as much as she tried to appear genuine. And when the stories were done for the day, and they rested here or there, her family members sometimes lapsed into hushed conversations in their respective languages—none of which she was particularly fluent in. Anne made a note to attempt to learn at least one of them when she returned. Couldn't be _that_ hard, right? Ah, what she would give for her cellphone right now. All she could do in these quiet moments was observe them as discreetly as possible.

As it was, her Scottish uncle was determined to ignore her father as much as possible; something that annoyed him to no end, having to relay messages through their Welsh brother despite their only being two people between them. It was rather comical seeing the display of immaturity. They'd always, even when they were arguing in the present, to be as...dignified as possible. At least her father had always tried very hard, Alistair was less inclined to maintaining posture and quietness. Still, leave it to the red-haired man to pull her father into a more confrontational mood; he had a knack for it. Apparently so did she.

And Alistair had drilled her with questions during those conversations. He'd turn hard on upon her and ask her specifics; what was she doing, why was she there when the spell was cast, how did she get caught in the crossfire, why did she not shield herself? Her lack of magic came as a distinct surprise to her family members, save her father and Rhys who already knew.

"How could she not have any magic?" Alistair growled towards her father, somehow implying that it was his fault, which of course, her father took as an insult.

"How would I know? No one can control the siring of a nation let alone the makeup of one."

"Figures your bad stock would do something like this."

"The devil does that mean, hm? She is of foreign lands; it could be that the magic, as _you_ well know, is different there! Perhaps her magic is different or couldn't develop because of that and being born of our clan." Alistair gave a 'harumph' and crossed his arms in his place. "Bloody git! You imply that I somehow caused this mishap!"

"For all we know yeh did!"

"Excuse me, but the _mishap_ is sitting right here." Anne piped in dryly. She was only slightly insulted. It wasn't anything new after all. They'd been disappointed when her magic didn't manifest. And they barely acknowledged any of her lands' mysticism when the colonies were starting. Besides, science was her game, so magic just took a back seat. It wasn't that she didn't believe in magic, after all it was what had landed her here, but like she'd mused before it had never been a big part of her life, especially as she grew larger.

"Pardon us," Rhys sighed throwing pointed looks to her siblings, "I'm sure Alistair did not mean to imply that you are..."

"Damaged?" Anne supplied almost bitterly. That seemed to shock them into silence. Another common subject of discussion; the what-was-wrong-with-America topic.

"Of-of course not," Alistair looked uncomfortable while Arthur stuttered.

"Look, what happened here was an accident and I can't go into too many details. My place in magic is...not the same. And that is fine with me because, frankly, what little experiences I've had with it have been disastrous. I manage fine without it; excel even." She raised an eyebrow daring anyone to challenge her claim, "What I excel in is technology and science. My nation put a man on the moon for heaven's sa—" She cut herself off. Shit, should she have revealed that? The conversation however, zeroed in on that fact. _A man on the moon? Truly?_ One exclaimed. Her uncle Rielly had literally stuck his head out of the carriage to peer up to the sky as if he could literally discern some proof there. Meanwhile, Uncle Rhys wanted to know what they found there—were there monsters? Water? People? Anne wasn't sure she could answer any of that, but it was interesting to see such wonder in their eyes. While the whole of the world was fascinated by the great Space Race, concerns over nuclear war overshadowed any thrill of the interplanetary frontier. Sad, really, because space really was an interesting place to be. She knew; she'd been out there. She knew Tony...wait, wouldn't Tony's alien tech be able to help her? Was he even back from visiting his relatives in... whatever galaxy he came from? Huh. Could Tony even time travel? How has she not thought to ask that before? Well, hindsight and all that, she supposed. Still...

"We built rockets to get there. They're like ships but they're powered by...fire, I guess. And it takes time, but we made it. We were the first nation do it. Traveling to spa—er, the _heavens_ is fairly regular now; expensive but we have, like, a small group of people up there often."

"And what is it they do?"

"Science. Research. We trying to learn as much as we can about the origins of the universe."

"But that is godly knowledge."

"It is science and available to anyone who wishes to learn about how we came into being. And if you're wondering about the Christian heaven, well, we never found it out there. But hey," she shrugged, "the universe is bigger than our minds can comprehend. There is so much we really don't know, so who knows what we will find out there..." _Like Tony_ , she thought about the crude little alien that hung around her house, missing the slight shock that appeared on Rhys' face. The others peered at him and he shook them off slightly conveying that he'd tell them later what he'd seen.

They thankfully turn their conversation to the far past where they spoke of inventions of those times; mainly weapons and the like; keen to point out which invention came from where, but she could tell they itched to press further with the way occasionally one would peer up to the sky in consideration. Her father also seemed to like this conversation, speaking of the incredible advances he'd seen since he'd come into being. It was wonderous seeing the same enthusiasm she had for the latest inventions in a man who typically worked to keep his emotions so tightly in check. Didn't always work, of course, as he lost his temper with her...and France...and Spain...and Prussia. Nevertheless, it seemed like that control extended to joy as well. He'd only allow himself to express only so much happiness. Anne could never understand it. Emotions are meant to be expressed. If you were excited by something then why not show it. If you were happy why try to hide it. If you were sad, then you cried right? Well, not even she was perfect in that regard. She was notorious for hiding her pain as much as she could, preferring to cover it with happiness. As if by smothering the negative things with joy could somehow lessen the blow. It only did so much to hide and did nothing to ease the hurt, she admitted to herself.

When they turned in for the night her father had informed her that they were very close to their destination and would take only a short time to prepare for the ritual. From there they'd be able to send her home. The news came as a relief as much as it had been sobering. She'd been having fun, listening to her uncles during the ride across the countryside, learning songs and dances in the taverns, and relaxing for what felt like the first time in so many years.

Being a world power was hard work; long work. And she had help, so why is it her time for adventuring became less and less? When the talk of holiday came up there was always something. Something that needed finishing, something to be done; this or that meeting; obligations. And even parties and events that were supposed to be fun or relaxing became more of a drill of etiquette, deals, and greater scrutiny from outsiders as well as her own government. She was always putting on a front; everywhere. And when she was finally able for some down time, she was either too tired or she needed to remain close; _just in case._ In fact, falling through time was probably the longest she'd gone without work in... decades? Anne rolled over in the small, lumpy bed she was given and tried to sleep, but it was difficult with the flashes of images her mind was insisting she see; it brought a headache, that was for sure.

Arthur and his brothers crowded a corner of the tavern after sending Anne off to sleep. They kept as close as they were willing but they needed to know what it was their eldest sibling had seen. Well, for Rhys, seeing is a somewhat generous word. Since he'd met his niece, he'd be subtly pressing her psyche to glean information. Not outright pulling thoughts, but enough to put conclusions together. It was something he kept from his younger brothers, lest they demand details he wasn't willing to give. The less they knew about the future the better, but they couldn't go into this blindly. And he really couldn't trust his rather emotional family members to not try and use that information despite the dangers _knowing_ could wrought. Rhys had known his place since long ago; had foreseen it. A gift he inherited from his mother. Some manner of clairvoyance and sight had served their family well in the darkest of times. And for this, Rhys knew, somewhat, what was to come. The things he'd dream of wasn't typically helpful in preventing terrible things, but at least it could help fortify them to brace for impact. But strong memories, especially from a mind untrained in blocking itself from infiltration or psychic powers, could be clear as day.

Rhys had known who his niece was the moment Arthur had dragged her into that first tavern; had known to expect her, just not exactly when. Memory and visions were fickle things; they could show you so much and then like smoke disappear and one wouldn't know they'd gleamed the future until the moment had literally come to pass. There would be no memory of the warning signs. It was why he tried to write his visions when he saw them, so that he could remember them, but even then, the cosmos would right itself and the vision was for naught. It was why he was surprised that his younger brothers seemed so oblivious, because he remembered and it seemed they had not.

He'd known his niece because he'd met her before; they all had. Ages ago it seems. And it was why he knew what was coming despite the fearful churning of his stomach for there was nothing to do but let it happen. To do everything he could to keep her safe in the moment since what was to pass will pass nonetheless. She would fall further. He knew it; remembered it and the sharp pain in his mind would follow. But his brothers seemed to have forgotten. Or at least, they weren't sharing. But after her second fall he could not remember what would become of her. If the times she lived before she traveled through time would be her last. Would she ever make it back to her time? Or would she disintegrate?

It was all terribly concerning.

It was why he told her every story she wanted to know. Doted upon her; mediated his brothers, tiring as that was. Who knew what the future held because there was only so much he could see from her; fantastical it may be. And what he did see was indeed fantastic. Stone cities that reached the sky, flying machines, and even more destructive weapons. Her _science_ was incredible to say the least. The memory of this creature, _Tony_ , was startling. The stuff of nightmares. The _Texas_ personification was no doubt a child of the Spaniard; and possibly so was the _Molossia_ boy but...not quite?

And her memories of her father; they'd been fighting he knew, but when was his youngest brother _not_ fighting. The Welshman wanted to sigh. Arthur was headstrong, stubborn, and at times unforgiving. But still, Rhys was as much saddened as he was frustrated. Arthur had always wanted children. He'd hoped that having the dream fulfilled would soften the Englishman a bit, but...well, his child was just like him. Just like all of them, really. But both of them had also wanted; wanted to love each other, to be a family again. They just couldn't move past whatever had caused so much discord between them; too much pride and a fear of being rejected by the other. Ah, what to do...

"You coming back to us now?" Rielly prodding him and Rhys glared. "Thought we'd lost ya a second there."

"Just gathering my thoughts."

"Aye so; what did you see?"

"Not much I can tell you I'm afraid." Scotland grumbled and Arthur scowled, but Rhys held up a hand. "That is how it must be."

"Then what can you tell us?" Eire prodded again.

"We must be prepared or we will fail her. This spell is dangerous and it will be up to us to keep her in one piece. That should be our focus."

"We need to know where to send her though. We can only hope that our future selves will be able to pull her in the right direction."

"They won't." Wales said solemnly. His siblings gave varied startled responses.

"What do ye mean?"

"I mean she will go where she is destined to go."

"Another point in time." Arthur looked pale and horrified. "But-brother, she—she could die." And Rhys wanted to reassure them, but he could not. Any joy they felt about meeting her seemed to suddenly dim into sorrow. Arthur looked surprisingly about to run to her room, where she slept soundly on, unknowing of what was to come, and just hold her. As if maintaining contact would spare her any terrible thing. It was their younger brother's weakness; when he loved, he loved greatly, even if it could destroy him. His emotions were always held close to the heart. He would never be over the departing of their beloved mother, he would never forgive Rome, would never fully trust Denmark; no matter how hard he tried to appear undisturbed. If his child ever died, it would destroy him, shatter them all. There would be no recovery. Their happiness always hollow and tainted with loss. He didn't want to think about it.

Eire had pulled out his runes, tossing them several times, and frantically trying to figure anything he could. But his focus was off from too much ale and worry to be able to concentrate as much as he needed to. Alistair clenched his mug hard enough to bend the metal, but Arthur abruptly stood and simply left the tavern. Rhys let him go, hoping he didn't get into any trouble, like a brawl, that they'd have to pull him out of. Taking a long drink of his ale, Rhys ran plan after plan in his head. He could only hope that fate favored the girl as much as they all already did.

As always, thank you for your faithful following and reviews! And I think I found a way to incorporate Angel Arthur for one of my reviewers! So hopefully that goes well! It'll be subtle, but present! Woo!


	13. Chapter 13

Hey guys! Sorry, this has actually been finished for a minute and I was going to post it sooner. I usually do this from my main computer, but I'm pretty sure there is a ghost hanging out in that room right now, and I'm terrified of ghosts, so...yea. I've already made my intentions known and given my commands (it got it's eviction notice) and when I am no longer wary of that room, then my work goes back to normal. But for now, I have to do this via my laptop, which, while awesome-sauce, is not in the norm for posting things and the change just bothers my routine a little, but it's all good gravy because I'm sure I will get used to this eventually and there will be no more paranormal upsets.

So here is the next part of the story!

13 -

In the present:

It was no easy task to find a place near Stonehenge. It was such a popular tourist spot that Wales never wanted to go there; too many different energies from people, he'd get overwhelmed fast. But Arthur was determined. Rhys had tried to warn him several times, but Arthur brushed him off. He knew the spells they were casting were dangerous, but he would keep his child safe. He was the goddamn British Empire! He would not fail his daughter. A conference call with both Matthew and the frog solidified his resolve. He employed the boy's help in fending off the American government, promising to explain later, but America was "missing" and he was working to find her. Mattie was understandably worried, but agreed to help nonetheless. Anne's government trusted Matthew's word over his, for whatever reason. _Hmph!_ His own government was giving him hell too, especially when he asked that Stonehenge be closed to the public for a few days. That had been a trial, but they finally agreed.

Rhys had zeroed in on him when he returned from a local store with some provisions. Marching straight to him with purpose, Rhys had grasped his arm to steer him away. It was surprising, his eldest sibling preferred to avoid physical contact as much as possible with his more volatile siblings for the sake of his sanity. And Arthur was known for taking cheap shots.

"Albion, you need to prepare yourself."

"I am aware, broth—"

"No, no you are not." He jerked Arthur's arm enough to stop him. "Alba and Eire can keep the energy at bay, whilst I open the portal, but you need to be the one to tether yourself to her. And it _will_ hurt."

"Look, I—" But Rhys cut him off.

"You need to pull her to your magic. As her father you are the only one who can do it. Do you understand? Pull her close and hold it."

"I-alright. I will." Rhys nodded but didn't look satisfied. He walked away to begin drawing on the massive stones once the tourists had been cleared away, but they wouldn't start until tomorrow. Arthur was eager to begin but they couldn't afford to make mistakes. He was anxious nonetheless. His ship logs had no more to offer as they were now traveling by land in the past, but he kept getting glimpses of times they were together. He supposed he should consider the journey well ventured. Alistair didn't pick fights with him until Anne was out of sight and it was usually after she retired; any marks they left on one another was where she wouldn't be able to see. It seems his elder brother could be sensible even when he was being a prick. The point was Anne was none the wiser; too enthralled with their stories to notice a wince here or a limping gait there. He couldn't tell what stories were being told, the dreams and visions only showed so much, but she looked pleased. He was...happy at that.

It was reminiscent of her times as a child in their small colonial home when he would read to her the stories that she loved best. (" _Tell me about King Arthur again! Oh, and the Holy Grail! Maybe we can find it here, father! Shall we go look?)_ Ah, she was so adorable. And she so adored him. It had been painful to lose that reverence. Now all he got was feigned interest or forced politeness. He tried to be impressive, but it only seemed to increase the resentful feelings that stewed between them. _No, Arthur, don't think that way. You get her back and then work on fixing things._ His little daughter was so like him, Arthur smiled sadly to himself. _Heh, she deserved a better figure_ , he supposed. But it was a part of what made her who she was, and she was incredible. _The will of a wild bird..._

Still...

Alistair had spoken about some ill feeling at breakfast that morning, ignoring the berating the others gave him on waiting to share the feeling with them. He'd only grunted that there was nothing to be done. Whatever happens will happen and they can only hope it ended as favorably as possible. The statement did nothing to comfort any of them. Arthur ran a hand through his hair. _No, they will succeed. They have to._ But he couldn't help but worry that something was going to go wron—no, unplanned. He took a sip of some tea he'd purchased, but it tasted like ash.

In the Past:

Anne woke to loud rapping on her door and before she could pull a robe on her Scottish uncle barged in. An elder maid fretting behind him, scurrying to cover Anne who completely forgot that this was not her time...again. Her uncle hadn't changed all that much over the centuries, had he? Truly. It seemed like the only difference some days was that he didn't wear cravat anymore.

"Up, lass. We need to get moving."

"Yes, sir." Anne blinked and her father suddenly appeared looking like he'd slept in the clothes he was wearing; all rumpled and wild hair sticking about.

"Get out, ruffian. How dare you enter a young lady's room!" Alistair only tutted and stalked from the room. Her father apologized to the fretting maid and departed as well, keeping his eyes down. Anne nevertheless was cracking up. It made putting the damnable corset even harder to put on.

Arthur was nursing a slight hangover in the tavern below, barely picking at his breakfast, while his brothers appeared to have handled the night better than he, though they still looked somber. He absently reached a hand over his chest feeling for small pendant he always wore. He'd spent a long part of the night fretting, pacing, and then to try and calm himself, shining the pendant bearing the Kirkland crest. He contemplated if he should tell his daughter about the high probability of this spell's failure. He had told himself that he'd keep his distance to maintain his reputation and spare himself the pain of her impending departure. He would see her in her right time, at the right time; he just needed to be patient. But oh, how he wished she could stay; that he could know his child, and to keep her safe. The child he'd always wanted...and he could lose her. Life really enjoyed tormenting him, didn't it?

He tried to manage his rumpled appearance as best he could when his daughter made her way to them, looking chipper and at ease, and Arthur's heart squeezed painfully. This could all go so horribly wrong. Yet here she sat, undisturbed, and cheerfully inquiring about their night—had they slept well? Get enough to eat? He wondered how both Eire and Alba could hide their worry and so easily speak to their niece in spite of the dread that had settled deep since the night before. But Eire had ordered many types of food, expensive ones too, telling his child to eat her fill. Arthur couldn't help but think of it as a last meal. Had to stop himself from retching and then Alba had harshly flicked his ear with a _pull yerself together, man!_ But he couldn't. He just couldn't. He could lose her after knowing her for only a short time. And he just couldn't. His dreams had been filled with terrible scenes of pain and horror, of her cries, calling for him to help her, and he was always too slow; too late. And what would he do when he did finally meet her in her own time? Could he somehow prevent this?

He remained silent even as Rhys had come to inform them that they were ready to depart for the ancient circle. It was time. Meanwhile, Anne had been chattering about her plans with them for the future, that they should have a sit down and discuss the memory of what happened here and how they should donate the clothing they'd purchased for her here. _No sense in wasting such lovely clothing._ Eire currently had her arm and was giving a small smile as she talked mostly at him about how they should definitely get together more. Eire's smile was watery and he refused to let her go, even on the carriage ride. Anne seemed curious, but took it in stride, occasionally asking her uncle if he was feeling unwell. Eire only nodded but looked about to cry when she smiled and patted his arm saying that he should take it easy after everything was over.

Both Alistair and Rhys seemed determined to remain as stoic as possible, neither saying much; simply allowing their niece to fill the silence, but listening. Arthur could only marvel at the scene; he rarely commanded such attention from them in times that weren't war council meetings or in the passing of dire news. It was if they were committing her voice to memory. _Just in case._ Arthur silently prayed to himself; begged that she be protected.

In the Present:

Arthur was sick. All morning. No. All day. Even when he only tried a simple soup and saltines for his dinner. His stomach was just not allowing him any peace. And for the life of him, he couldn't understand why. Or rather, he refused to accept any notion of terrible horizon ahead. His little Anne was coming home. All would be well and his depressing brother could shove it up his arse. Everything was going to be fine. He had already been planning things they could do together when she returned. After a long discussion they would work to settle their differences and start anew. It wouldn't be fixed right then, but at the very least it was a start. She could take time to rest and he would happily host her, tending to every need. Her government would get off his back, seeing that their personification was alive and well, alleged sickness had passed, and she would be _recovering_ with her father to keep watch. And if she felt up to it, since they were staying in Amesbury anyway, she could certainly relax there or they could travel to Bath for more options for a resting holiday. No doubt they'd both need it. He was certain he could pull strings for a last-minute stay at the Royal Crescent.

His brothers were immersed in their discussion of the spell they were about to cast with Wales, who met them at their car when they arrived after him to the massive stone structure, taking the lead as to who should do what. It was all terribly complex. And as strange as it was to say it, think it, Eire was the most stable. It was always assumed the Wales held that place, but Rhys' magic is better at complexities that often strained his magic to move about in waves more than anything. He and Alistair were both terrible at maintaining a steady kind of control, instead using their magic in bursts. Eire, however, could manage his magic like a stream constantly moving about in one direction at the same steady pace. It was why his spells could last seemingly forever or span the farthest; like a diligently woven tapestry across his lands. It was also why his curses took forever to break, Arthur winced.

"Remember now, you need to sense her and once you have a clear connection, you need to hold it."

"I know," Arthur sighed, he felt like he'd heard his eldest brother say this at least twenty times in a single day. They were walking to the ancient structure carrying a few provisions they'd agreed they might need; blankets because travelling through portals was a shock to the system, food and water for the same reasons, and a medical kit...just in case. They worried a bit, all of them; while grateful the headaches ceased, it also meant that there were no new visions to gleam information from. Just a strong sense of foreboding and their prophesizing skills were of no help. It was as if they were all forgetting something very important, but it appeared not even the cosmos wanted them to know what awaits.

Everything was ready; Rhys had spent the whole day drawing the symbols and re-drawing them when they failed his expectations. Arthur couldn't be more grateful for his dedication.

It was time. They were going to bring her home.

In the past:

Anne couldn't remember the last time she saw the Stonehenge marvel; it had been a long time and she remembered it had been full of crowds. It was one of the wonders, right? And it was one of the few times she and her father had gotten on well enough to stand one another for a short trip. She had mentioned once that she had never been able to see it. It was, she thought, after seeing some manner of advertisement (or something) and he immediately made plans during one her usual business visits. _As a nation and representative of one's people, it is important to learn about other nations; their histories, their accomplishments, and so on_ , he had told her. It was hard to enjoy with his accompanying lecture, but was still a sight to see.

And while it did eventually lead into an argument about how most other nations knew very little of her country and what it has to offer beyond New York and Hollywood, to which he scathingly remarked about how her many theme parks were hardly worthy history. Hmph! She wanted to slap him. She'd been referring to her many, many museums. She had many galleries, historical museums, science museums with exhibitions from all over her nation _and_ the world. And anything that had come from her fatherland was treated with respect and praise (save some, but not all, of the revolutionary history exhibits). It was like the World's Fair all over again. Despite her still recovering from the effects of her Civil War, she was excited to participate and herald in her nation's inventions and achievements. But he seemed to barely glance at them before moving on to see other nations' contributions.

Anne couldn't understand it. This version, while a bit rough and few arguments between them, didn't seem to hate her. Whereas in the future, they couldn't seem to stop fighting. And at this point, Anne was sure that it couldn't stem simply from lingering bitterness over her revolution. No. It seemed to stem from something else. But what? What was it that was so wrong between them? Why did he seem to hate her so? This past version seemed only frustrated with her at most. Anne, for a moment, found herself reluctant to be sent back. Almost wished for a crowd that she could disappear into.

But now, as she walked towards the ancient circle, there were no people about. It was quiet, misty, and chilly. And she wasn't sure if any shortness she felt in her chest was from the corset or the briskness of the area. There were markings drawn about the structures, recent ones, despite already fading.

"They're to aid in the spell," her Uncle Rhys answered, following her gaze. "The circles and their language are important for stabilizing magic, or in this case portals." Anne nodded, though couldn't really reconcile the strange swirls and characters as a language. They were ancient things, older than her father and uncles, she knew.

"Anne..." he hesitated a moment, "It is important to keep your mind open and clear. Since you are here it is important to tether yourself to something of your time."

"Tether?"

"Thoughts, for example. Think of your father in your time; as you know him. It makes it easier if you are as detailed as possible. As in, what he looks like, how he sounds; any memory that your senses would recognize as him. Do you understand?"

"I...I think so."

"Think on it and hold that memory. Have it as clear as you can manage." he patted her arm before hesitating again, and then reaching to squeeze her shoulder before taking his place within one of the circles. Her other uncles each gave her firm hugs that seemed to last longer than was considered polite and then took their place. Her father was last.

"Here." he draped a chain over her head and tucked it behind the shawl that covered her before she could see it. He looked like he wanted to say so much more with the way he kept opening his mouth as if to say something. But he finally settled. "Be careful and we will discuss this further in your time." It was all he said with shaky voice and steadily avoiding her gaze. Which she could admit, kind of hurt. A proper goodbye, one she hadn't experienced in ages, would have been nice.

"Off you go, then." and he directed her to the circle her uncle had drawn for her to stand in.

Anne had to concede it would have been pretty exciting to actually see their magic in action, but as the scenery seemed to shine and warp into a kind of funhouse-mirrors type of strangeness her perception everything around her seemed to be over powered by a rushing sound that made her ears ring; like when a tornado sideswipes your house. She had her memory of her father in the forefront of her mind, like she was told, but it was difficult to choose one memory. Flashes of him throughout the centuries kept interfering with the one she left behind. She could still see her father and her uncles chanting something, and felt a pull on her limbs, and saw when tried to turn to see her father again, only she couldn't, she heard her Uncle Rhys say "It was good to see you again, America." It caused her to start, as well as her father and his other brothers with a collective kind of _'what_?'

All goes black. And suddenly came pain.


	14. Chapter 14

14- End of part 1:

If you have never had a knife scrape across your skin, Anne would highly recommend you avoid it. It might not be a big deal if its shallow, but the deeper the knife goes that worse it is. How the flesh just seems to tear apart and the liquid life just surges forward as a dark, macabre geyser. Just fire. Straight to that point. But Anne felt it everywhere. And it was so hard to focus on the memory of her father as she was instructed to do. She'd felt this before, when she fell the first time, but this was way worse. So much worse. And she could help but be frightened by it. So much had happened in the short time she'd been in this past life, hearing their stories, even if she only saw Uncle Alistair and Uncle Reilly for a brief few days. And it was all supposed to go back to normal now.

So why did this hurt so much more? It was as if this space, _the ether_ her Uncle Rhys had told her, wanted to pull, no, slice her apart. Is this what travelling through a black hole feels like? Now it was really terrifying. She tried to cry out. Yell that something was wrong but she couldn't really _see_ anything...nothing tangible...just bright and then dark and then warped. Air was being pushed into her lungs but her chest felt heavy; as if something was pressing to push it back out. She was warned not to lose focus, which had been a daunting task with all the sensations, but now that she was panicking her thoughts on her father seemed to swarm. Because he could help her, she was sure of it. She wanted him to help her. Because she didn't know what to do. _Just...just help! Please! Father!_

In the present:

Arthur felt his stomach lurch painfully and tried not to gag, while his brothers continued with the spell to stabilize the portal. He sensed her, he knew he did, but it was strange. Like he was stumbling forward, but he knew he had never actually moved from his spot in the circle. He felt his own anxiousness spike with each second and tried to focus on pulling her to him. But the nauseating feeling had reared full force and he clutched at his stomach.

"Albion!" he heard one of them call out angrily.

"Oi! Focus!" and wanted to tell them to sod off because this _wasn't easy_. He took a deep breath and tried to force his gut to relax and stop clenching. His sense of his daughter seemed to flicker back and forth; close and then far away again. _My poor child..._ he thought of her being pulled through the portal; the horrible, draining feeling it seeped into you... _father is coming._

 _There!_ He poured his magic into the connection, wand in his hand glowing bright and hot, and imagined the feeling coming to him, pulling it to his center.

It had reminded him once, when both Anne and Matthieu were still his little colonies, they'd been excited to take a small boat into a rather large lake. They'd excitedly pointed to the fish that ventured close. He'd warned them, over and over, to be careful of rocking the boat, lest they fall in. Little Matthieu had never been the steadiest on his feet, a habit he thankfully grew out of, and upon hearing Anne exclaim about a particularly colorful fish she saw, tried to quickly see it. He'd snagged his foot on one of the small mooring ropes and toppled onto Anne, sending her right over with a little squeak. At the time, Arthur's heart skipped a few beats and with a quick order for Matthieu not to move dove in straight away. It was freshwater so she seemed to just sink, but he had managed to snatch her little arm and pull her to him to swim to the surface. And though it was spring, the water was still bitterly cold. They came up to her sputtering and he quickly pulled them into the boat with a weeping Matthieu. The rest of the day was spent holding his daughter close to keep her warm and an arm around her brother to console him. _Yes, Matthew, he knew it was an accident. It's alright. He wasn't angry._ Though he'd been certainly scared for a moment and then concerned when he could here Anne's teeth chattering. The whole day, and even at bedtime, he'd held her close. Cuddling her to his chest, curling around her in his sleep; he was a shield.

As a nation unto himself he acted as a sword; sharp and unforgiving. Deadly. But as a father...to all his children...he'd fashioned himself as a shield; a stone wall for the harsh tempest to beat against so they would be protected. He could take it. He'd accumulated enough power to do so. At first to tear down his enemies, but later, to protect his family. His enemies could rail against him all they wanted. He was a father, _her father_ , and he would keep her safe. A sword could protect, but the blade cut both ways, and he sought to keep his children from such terrible things. No, he was a shield instead. His brothers called it mollycoddling. Children were not made of glass, they said. How are they going to stand by themselves if he kept carrying them about? Wrong. Children were remarkably resilient, it was true, but some things...some things they shouldn't have to experience. Some called it character building, but he'd seen so many suffer from their traumas rather than be made invincible by it. Like the young men, boys really, pulled into the wars and frightened by its horrors...crying for their mothers as they'd lost limbs.

No. You could be made strong other ways. Ways that didn't involve horrific experiences that caused more damage than learning experience. All they'd gone home with was nightmares and an inability to seek help or comfort for their broken minds. If they went home at all. They were left with anguish...and bitterness. And he did not want that for his children.

And so, he imagined pulling her close, as he did when she was so, so small. Imagined curling around that once small child in the centuries past to ward off the chill and the shadows. She would be coming home...

Anne hurt. Everywhere. But she finally managed to focus her thoughts, keep them channeled towards her memories of her father. Recent ones. Good ones; few they may be. _Discussing recent joint efforts that were going well. Enjoying an easy, simple lunch at a local pub without all the formalities. That had been nice, hadn't it? For once, they weren't fighting about anything. He'd asked her about her recent weeks, citing her recent rise in farmer's markets, which had drifted into topics of agriculture. Then into her recent visit with Matthieu and their annual hockey game and movie marathon. To books they'd read recently. They'd parted amicably. And that one time in the late 1800s, when they'd enjoyed the opening of a new botanical garden; admiring the beautiful and exotic flora. He reminded her of her hobby of pressing flowers. She'd told him she had volumes now; she would show him her collection his next visit, though that moment never happened. And more recently...when she was able to celebrate the V-day celebration with a great portion of her family...it had been fun. He'd been amused by her country's performers and contented by the turnout of his children, who seemed to all be well, getting on well, and generally happy to be there. Coordination of that caliber was difficult to achieve most of the time._

God it had hurt, Anne had thought, but at least their relations weren't _always_ riddled with discord. There were still times when they could get along, when he'd been friendly and caring, even if only professionally. He'd rushed over after the attacks on her lands, Mattie on his heels; genuine concern on his face. Ah but...that visit hadn't gone well. Anne refused to break down, no matter how much she wanted to. She remained steely, insisting that she was fine; that she needed no help and that the perpetrators would pay. That day devolved into an argument and a first for them; she'd had him thrown out. Before, she'd never dare dismiss him, no, she'd always find a way, a reason, to leave. Even Matt had been shocked into silence. And she rather numbly excused herself from any and all other visitations. She broke down alone. Horribly. Painfully. _Solitary._ Until she was composed enough to allow visits again, but only from Texas and Molossia who'd graciously picked up the slack while she locked herself away. Her father had been rather professionally cold for years after.

Professional. Appropriate. Pleasant but distant. There would always be that distance between them. Just like the Atlantic. Anne was starting to numb; to feel cold. Her thoughts were drifting and she tried to refocus, but...but...damn it she felt so weak. She didn't want to go back. Because it hurt there so often. And she felt horrible for thinking so.

Arthur gasped, feeling his connection with her weaken. _No!_ He pressed on trying to pull more but she seemed to be drifting, sinking, like that time he recalled in the lake. He pushed his thoughts forward, trying to reach her, pouring his magic in and cursing himself for his weakness. His magic wasn't as strong as it used to be. Not since...damn it all, not since his reign. _That_ seal would just always be a draining factor...his sense of her wavered, but...portals were always full of connections. It was peculiar. Because when he remembered his past, his own magical signature seemed to be within the portal as well. And what did that mean? He couldn't sense any migraines of oncoming memories, but...was his past-self trying to pull her back? Why? Was the portal on their end deteriorating? No, he had to pull her close! But his own magic signature...remnant? It flooded with the sensory memory of times long past. A past they'd worked hard to diminish into fable. There would always be a piece of him there. His magic would always be tethered there to keep dark things at bay...But this magic, entwinning with his current spell, grabbing at it...charging it and...and bending it. Almost sentient, but not truly...Was it trying to reach her? Did his own magic _sense_ its connection to her?

Arthur vaguely heard several curses in varying languages before his magic seemed to snap! Pulled taut and fiery. He felt his own magic tug at him, but he refocused towards his child and pushed his energy forward as if to manifest itself into protection.

"Oi! Albion! Alb—!" But for Arthur, all had gone silent and dark.

Crackling pain rippled through her and Anne was sure she'd screamed. Tried to peer around her but there was such a chaos of sound and light her senses seemed to overload. It was like a bad trip. Really bad. Like when the chemicals tear you a new reality and it is nothing but horror-filled intensity. But the searing sensation had suddenly stopped and while she was in pain still, she felt...enveloped? Held? Weightless—no, _bodiless_. And she felt...feathers? Wings brushed against her and a heavy, firm hold was there. She opened her eyes to brightness and a sound—voice—her mind identified but could not understand. She was being spoken to, but...what was it saying? Anne felt like she was suddenly thrust over a waterfall, in a straightjacket, as she felt pulled again in the hold. And just before everything went dark, she saw him, surrounded by shining light, with wings, and a small, gentle smile. She saw her father.

Later she would think that falling into the ocean the first run around was infinitely better than being slammed into a body much harder and stronger than hers. She had a newfound sympathy for others who encountered her when she lost control of her strength.

And in the present, her father...would not awaken for a while.

End of Part 1, and onto Part 2: The King


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